Twenty years ago I drove a cab for a living. One early morning I arrived at the address and the building was completely dark except for one single light in a ground floor window. Ordinarily under these circumstances many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute and drive away. But I had seen too many people who really 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 is what I reasoned to myself.

 So with a little trepidation I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," came a small elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor and after a long pause the door opened. A small women looking to be about 80 stood before me. She was wearing a bright print dress and a pill box hat with a veil pinned on it, like someone in a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. As I glanced around it appeared as no one had lived here for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks, no pictures and not even a knickknack or dish on the counters. In the corner was a box with what appeared to be filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag to the car please," she asked. I took the bag to the cab, then returned to assist her down the stairs and into the cab. She took my arm, and as we slowly walked to the cab she kept thanking me for the kindness. "It's nothing," I said. " I just treat people the same way I would want my mother treated." "Oh, you're such a nice man," she said.

When we got into the cab she gave me an address and asked," Would you take me through downtown on the way?" "It's not the shortest way," I said. "Oh I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry young man. I am on my way to a hospice." When 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 said.

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 then drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of and old warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had danced as a young girl. Sometimes she asked me to slow in front of a building or street 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 thought. I opened the trunk and took her small suitcase to the door. The women was already seated in a wheelchair." How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching for her purse." Nothing" I said. "It was a pleasure to serve you." "You have to make a living young man", she said. "There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "Thank you, young man, you gave an old women a moment of joy." I squeezed her hand, then walked into the early morning dawn.

Behind me I heard a door shut. It was the sound of a life closing, I thought sadly. I didn't pick anyone else up for the rest of the shift. I just drove aimlessly, lost in thought, for the rest of that day. On review that morning I thought, "I don't think I have done anything more important or more rewarding in my life."  We are conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in small unassuming packages. I do remember thinking, PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID, BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL AND YOU WILL REMEMBER TOO.