The old man asked again. When I’m gone. His eyes blinked from behind his glasses. His neatly trimmed beard was gray, and he stood slightly stooped. Are you dying? I asked. Not yet, he said, grinning. Then why— Because I think you would
Mitch Albom
The old man asked again. When I’m gone. His eyes blinked from behind his glasses. His neatly trimmed beard was gray, and he stood slightly stooped. Are you dying? I asked. Not yet, he said, grinning. Then why— Because I think you would