Get out the Kleenex and remember how much your actions affect the feelings of others.

I probably owe every one of you an apology for something I have said or something I have done or not done at some point in time.

Please know I am sorry and enjoy reading the story.

THE CAB RIDE



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 1940's 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.



PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT
THEY
WILL
ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.