Something meaningful.

Something meaningful.......

> > THE CAB RIDE
> > By Author Unknown
> >
> > Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30
> > a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground
> > floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk
>=
> >once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away. But, I had seen too =
> >many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of =
> >transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to =
> >the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I =
> >reasoned to myself.
> >
> > 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 80'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, 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. 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, 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.
> >
> >
> > PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT =
> >THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

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