A narration from this story about having patience with the interactions of others from a taxi driver's perspective.
English (North American)
Middle Aged (35-54)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I'm reading an excerpt from a sweet lesson in Patience. Part one, 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 the day. I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten 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, or 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.