"I've picked a place to be buried." Where is that? "Not far from here. On a hill, beneath a tree, overlooking a pond. Very serene. A good place to think." Are you planning on thinking there? "I'm planning on being dead there." He chuckles. I chuckle. "Will you visit?" Visit? "Just come and talk. Make it a Tuesday. You always come on Tuesdays." We're Tuesday people. "Right. Tuesday people. Come to talk, then?" He has grown so weak so fast. "Look at me," he says. I'm looking. "You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?" My problems? "Yes." And you'll give me answers? "I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?" I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine-foot piece of earth where they will place him, cover him with dirt, put a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days? I see myself sitting there alone, arms across my knees, starting into space. It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk. "Ah, talk. . ." He closes his eyes and smiles. "Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen." --Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom
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