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, 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 80s 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 rearview 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, 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.

(Author Unknown)