...So I
walked to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute', answered a
frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her
90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a
1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked
as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture
was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls,
no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner
was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took
the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She
kept thanking me for my kindness.
'It's
nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the
way I would want my mother treated'..
'Oh, you're such a good boy', she said. When we got in the
cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, 'Could you
drive through downtown?'
'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.
'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my
way to a hospice'.
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
'I don't have any family left,' she continued. 'The doctor
says I don't have very long.'
I quietly
reached over and shut off the meter. 'What route would you
like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She
showed me the building where she had once worked as an
elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband
had lived when they were newlyweds.
She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that
had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a
girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular
building or corner and would sit staring into the
darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she
suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was
a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a
driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out
to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and
intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.
The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
'How much do I owe you?' she asked, reaching into her
purse.
'Nothing,' I said
'You have to make a living,' she answered.
'There are other passengers,' I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held
onto me tightly.
'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she
said. 'Thank you.'
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning
light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the
closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove
aimlessly lost in thought.
For the rest
of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had
gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his
shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked
once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything
more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around
great moments. But great moments often catch us
unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a
small one.