I saw this image of Morrie and my jaw dropped because there on the screen was this thin, sickly, white haired looking version of my old professor, this man I cared so much about. And now he only had a few months left to live. And I'd wasted all that time. It was hard to see.

How far out the door was I? Halfway. What if I had dropped the course? My life would be 100% different. I always tell this to people: on such small things in life, your whole world can change. If I had left, I’d be down the hall and he’d be calling for Albom? Albom? Bueller? And instead, out of guilt, I kind of slid back in and I raised my hand. You’ve heard the expression, “life can turn on a dime.” It did in that moment, and again when I saw Morrie on television.

I can tell you that when I first called Morrie, and when I met him that first time, Morrie was the one who made it easier for me. When I was in college, I used to call him Coach, like a sports affectation. And he said, "How come you didn't call me coach?" He broke the ice. All these years that I kept saying I was going to go back there and see him and now he's dying. He could've said, "it took my dying to get you to come see me?"

One of the most common emails I receive from readers — particularly students reading the book in a class — is: “Why don’t you use quotation marks when you speak but you use them when Morrie does? Does it mean something?” Good eyes, keen readers! This was a style choice I made to de-emphasize myself in the story. Even though I was asking Morrie the questions, I was asking for all of us. In that way, I hoped we could share in being “the student” together.

You could say this about all of Morrie’s lessons, but this one feels particularly relevant to today, particularly in very divided societies like the U.S. is now. Do you feel like the world, your country, or even your neighborhood are all going in a cultural direction that you don’t always feel comfortable with? How do you without risking something? A great lesson from Morrie: “Once you can understand the nature of the people that you are afraid of criticizing you, you’ll no longer be afraid of them criticizing you.”

Making him laugh felt like the most important thing I could do. The truth is, I wasn’t very comfortable around Morrie at the beginning. Watching him drool water when he tried to drink, the way his head listed to the side like a dead weight, the droopy flesh of his aged body, it all made me uncomfortable. But Morrie was not easily embarrassed. “Pay no attention to this body,” he told me, “it’s not me. It’s the carton I was shipped in. Look in my eyes. I’m still here. Don’t treat me like I’m already dead.” I have learned to that - to look in the eyes not the face, to listen to the soul not the voice. Morrie taught me that.

Do you ever think of the mysterious, but achingly beautiful song, "Nature Boy"? The lyrics go, “The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.” It's an important lesson in a song written by an even more mysterious composer, eden ahbez, and a very fitting song I had the main character sing in "The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto."

Every day closer to death, Morrie felt connected, more and more, to all people suffering. But also the closer to death he came, the more he understood what it was teaching him about a kind of secret to living, to appreciating what you have. Since starting the Tuesday People podcast back in 2019, I've been going back to many of the audio recordings I have of Morrie. He said, explaining this, "The Buddhists say that you should be prepared to die at any moment because life is vulnerable. If you have that attitude, then you will do whatever you want to do without fear. Bust most people are afraid. I think that's one of the reasons why people accumulate so much money and power. It's an illusion. Live as fully and deeply as you can in the moment. It's doesn't mean you ignore the future or the past. But all you have is right now. Whatever you do is right now."

I'm often asked what the biggest lesson more taught me. For all of his memorable aphorisms we've written down and highlighted and underlined, twice, I'm not sure his lessons always came through his words. I'm still moved by the moments I watched Morrie's compassion and empathy as he cried for volatile situations and war on the other side of the world, or how he counseled those who came to visit him about their own problems. I later asked him why he didn’t just take their sympathy and revel in it, and he got upset. “Why would I take from people like that?” he said. “Taking makes me feel like I’m dying. Giving makes me feel like I’m living.” Giving is living. It's a phrase I never wrote in this book. But one that I take with me as, thanks to Morrie, I have gotten more involved with charity, community, and family. Giving is living is how I approach my work with the nonprofits I founded, SAY Detroit and A Hole in the Roof, which operates the Have Faith Haiti Mission & Orphanage in Port-au-Prince. I'm reminded of that every monthly visit to the orphanage. Do you feel that same sense of tingling, of spark, of true fulfillment when you give of yourself, instead of when you are showering yourself with...stuff?

Another question I am often asked by readers is whether I’ve continued my visits with Morrie, after he was gone. The answer is yes. In fact, I’ve gone many times. First, to keep my promise. And after that, to keep my connection to him. In the full account of this talk, Morrie asked me, “Come when you have some time. Bring a blanket.” A blanket? “Some sandwiches.” Sandwiches? “And talk to me. About life. About your problems. You can tell me who’s in the World Series.” “They’ll arrest me,” I joked. As the years have passed, each time I return I’m reminded how much closer I am to Morrie’s age during our Tuesday visits now. And I think I understand better why he wanted to ensure my visits. It was a fear of being forgotten.

I hope I get to see Morrie again somehow, to thank him and to tease him and to ask him, “how’d I do?” Did I pass that last class? And to tell him that, no matter how much he was around me in pages, in the audio tapes, in all the incredible attention that small book has been blessed with, that I missed him. That I miss him still.

I added this poem in the 20th anniversary edition. It is a haunting story about a man who hears voices beneath tombs, voices bemoaning “a second death” when memories of the buried soul fade and oblivion awaits. Morrie never read a word of “Tuesdays with Morrie.” But his legacy lives on. I think that is the biggest thing I have learned in the nearly three decades that have followed. That if you do things from the heart, that if you touch other people, that if you focus not on enriching yourself but on how you can enrich others, your legacy may be longer than you ever imagined. And you truly can go on after you’re gone. It’s a kind of immortality. I couldn’t think of a better legacy for Morrie. I hope wherever he’s “dancing free” now, that knowing it makes him smile.