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Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would honk once or twice, 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. I walked to the door and knocked. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All furniture was covered. There were no utensils on the counters. I took the suitcase to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm. 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.” She gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?” “It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice,” she said. “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. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived as newlyweds. As the first hint of dawn, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.” We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a small convalescent home. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. “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 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.” 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. What if that woman had gotten an angry or an impatient driver? 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. — Author unknown
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