This was emailed to me. I tried to edit out all the forward marks, but then it was lost when I tried to submit.

Rayna

> Remember : life is not about who we are or what we
> do, but how we treat each person we meet along the
> way...
>
>
>
> Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I
> arrived at 2:30 AM, 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...