相约星期二,该文是相约星期二方面有关专升本毕业论文范文和相约星期二方面研究生毕业论文范文.
相约星期二论文参考文献：
米奇·阿尔博姆（Mitch Albom）,美国著名畅销书作家、专栏作家、电台主持人、电视评论员,此外还是活跃的慈善活动家.迄今为止,阿尔博姆已出版九部畅销著作,包括《相约星期二》（Tuesdays with Morrie）、《你在天堂遇到的五个人》（The Five People You Meet in the Heen）、《一日重生》（For One More Day）等.
It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morrie’s house. I took in little details, things I hadn’t noticed for all the times I’d visited. The cut of the hill. The stone facade of the house. The pachysandra plants, the low shrubs. I walked slowly, taking my time, stepping on dead wet lees that flattened beneath my feet.
Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well. This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time, which was unlike him. He never cared for sleeping, not when there were people he could talk with.
“He wants you to come visit,” Charlotte said,“but, Mitch…”
Yes？
“He’s very weak.”
The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a slow, observant manner, as if seeing them for the first time.
Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant, she had a drawn look on her face. Her hello was softly spoken.
How’s he doing？ I said.
“Not so good.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t like to think about it. He’s such a sweet man, you know？”
I knew.
“This is such a shame”.
Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still sleeping, even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her straighten up, noticing all the bottles of pills lined up on the table, a all army of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking morphine now to ease his breathing.
I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator—soup, vegetable cakes, tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadn’t chewed food like this in months, we both knew that, but it had become a all tradition. Sometimes, when you’re losing someone, you hang on to whatever tradition you can.
I waited in the living room, where Morrie and Ted Koppel had done their first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota children had shot each other playing with their father’s guns. A baby had been found buried in a garbage can in an alley in Los Angeles.
I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually, I heard a door open and close, then Charlotte’s footsteps coming toward me.
“All right,” she said softly. “He’s ready for you.”
I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot, then saw a strange woman sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair, her eyes on a book, her legs crossed. This was a hospice nurse, part of the twenty-four-hour watch.
Morrie’s study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to the bedroom, and there he was, lying in bed, under the sheet. I had seen him like this only one other time—when he was getting massaged—and the echo of his aphori “When you’re in bed, you’re dead” began anew inside my head.
I entered, pushing a ile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama-like top, and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was so withered that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as all as a child.
Morrie’s mouth was open, and his skin was pale and tight against his cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me, he tried to speak, but I heard only a soft grunt.
There he is, I said, mustering all the excitement I could find in my empty till.
He exhaled, shut his eyes, then iled, the very effort seeming to tire him.
“My…dear…friend…” he finally said.
I am your friend, I said.
I’m not…so good today…”
Tomorrow will be better.
He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with something beneath the sheets, and I realized he was trying to move his hands toward the opening.
“Hold…” he said.
I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside my own. I leaned in close, a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had seen him unshen, the all white whiskers looking so out of place, as if someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else？
Morrie, I said softly. “Coach,” he corrected.
Coach, I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke in short bursts, inhaling air, exhaling words. His voice was thin and raspy. He elled of ointment.
“You…are a good soul.” A good soul.
“Touched me…” he whispered. Moved my hands to his heart. “Here.”
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach？
“Ahh？”
I don’t know how to say good-bye.
He patted my hand weakly, keeping it on his chest.
“This…is how we say…good-bye…”
He breathed softly, in and out. I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he looked right at me.
“Love…you,” he rasped.
I love you, too, Coach.
“Know you do…know…something else…”
What else do you know？
“You…always he…”
His eyes got all, and then he cried, his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured how his tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears, as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing approached normal again, I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired, so I would be back next Tuesday, and I expected him to be a little more alert, thank you. He snorted lightly, as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.
I leaned in and kissed him closely, my face against his, whiskers on whiskers, skin on skin, holding it there, longer than normal, in case it ge him even a split second of pleasure.
Okay, then？ I said, pulling away.
I blinked back the tears, and he acked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satiaction for my dear old professor： he had finally made me cry.
“Okay, then,” he whispered.
Morrie died on a Saturday morning.
His immediate family was with him in the house. Rob made it in from Tokyo, he got to kiss his father good-bye, and Jon was there, and of course Charlotte was there and Charlotte’s cousin Marsha, who had written the poem that so moved Morrie at his “unofficial” memorial serve, the poem that likened him to a “tender sequoia.” They slept in shifts around his bed. Morrie had fallen into a coma two days after our final visit, and the doctor said he could go at any moment. Instead, he hung on, through a tough afternoon, through a dark night.
Finally, on the fourth of November, when those he loved had left the room just for a moment—to grab coffee in the kitchen, the first time none of them were with him since the coma began—Morrie stopped breathing.
And he was gone.
I believe he died this way on purpose. I believe he wanted no chilling moments, no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it, the way he had been haunted by his mother’s death notice telegram or by his father’s corpse in the city morgue.
I believe he knew that he was in his own bed, that his books and his notes and his all hibiscus plant were nearby. He wanted to go serenely, and that is how he went.
The funeral was held on a damp, windy morning. The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk. We stood by the hole in the earth, close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.
Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend, Charlotte kept this gathering all, just a few close friends and relatives. Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morrie’s brother, Did, who still walked with a limp from his childhood polio, lifted the shovel and tossed dirt in the gre, as per tradition.
At one point, when Morrie’s ashes were placed into the ground, I glanced around the cemetery. Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot, trees and grass and a sloping hill.
“You talk, I’ll listen,” he had said.
I tried doing that in my head and, to my happiness, found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural. I looked down at my hands, saw my watch and realized why.
It was Tuesday.
本文点评,该文是关于对写作相约星期二论文范文与课题研究的大学硕士、相约星期二本科毕业论文相约星期二论文开题报告范文和相关文献综述及职称论文参考文献资料有帮助.
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