Twenty years ago, I drove a taxi for a living. One night I went to pick up a passenger at 2:30 a.m. When I arrived to collect, I saw a small woman in her eighties standing before me. I took the suitcase to the car, and then returned to help the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the car. 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 man." She said. When we got into the taxi, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I'm in no hurry," she said. "I'm on my way to a hospice (临终医院). I don't have any family left. The doctor says I don't have very long time." I quietly shut off the meter (计价器). For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked, the neighborhood where she had lived. Sometimes she asked me to slow down in front of a special building and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing. At dawn, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
"How much shall I give you?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered. "Oh, there are other passengers," I answered. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly and said, "You gave an old woman a little moment of happiness."
