God sings, we hum along, and there are many melodies, but it's all one song - one same, wonderful, human song. - Mitch Albom

As my visits with Morrie go on, I begin to read about death, how different cultures view the final passage. There is a tribe in the North American Arctic, for example, who believe that all things on earth have a soul that exists in a miniature form of the body that hold it -so that a deer has a tiny deer inside it, and a man has a tiny man inside him. When the large being dies, that tiny form lives on. It can slide into something being born nearby, or it can go to a temporary resting place in the sky, in the belly of a great feminine spirit, where it waits until the moon can send it back to earth.

Sometimes, they say, the moon is so busy with the new souls of the world that it disappears from the sky. That is why we have moonless nights. But in the end, the moon always returns, as do we all.

That is what they believe.

Dor came from a time before the written word, a time
when if you wished to speak with someone, you walked to see them. This time was different. The tools of
this era — phones, computers — enabled people to move at a blurring pace. Yet despite all they
accomplished, they were never at peace. They constantly checked their devices to see what time it was — the very thing Dor had tried to determine once with a stick, a stone, and a shadow.

No soul remembered is ever really gone.