It has been ages since I last wrote anything here. There are many reasons for my lack of enthusiasm but mainly I was down with pneumonia since August. I have sufficiently recovered though, and had been quite active with my usual chore since last week.
I would like to start this writing in remembrance of a good friend, Mr. Francis Satim, a volunteer at St Ann, who suddenly passed away yesterday afternoon (October 19, 2009). I really do not know what to say, so forgive me if I just ramble a bit. I received the news at 2.00PM from my relative, Ms Ani Solep who was equally shocked and she was trying to confirm the news with me. I immediately called the Office of St Ann, which confirmed the news.
Last week, on Tuesday, I invited him and Mr. Barnabas Willie for breakfast at Swee Sen, our favourite coffee shop at 10th Mile Bazaar. He was grateful and promised to treat me for the same on Thursday but I did not meet him then because of other commitment. However, I met him on Sunday at St Ann and he quickly pulled me into SACC Office telling me that the Office has just installed with an air conditioner. In the evening, we had our monthly SACC meeting at that Office and there was nothing to indicate that Mr. Francis was not well. The meeting adjourned at 9.30PM and his last words were “Good night Brother, and thank you for the dinner.” I bade him goodnight and that apparently was how it all end.
Looking back, I regret for not keeping the appointment on Thursday for that breakfast he wanted to treat me. It was not the food, but the company of one another that we cherished. How can I make up for that loss opportunity?
Perhaps a story that I picked up from mavarickysm.blogspot.com will answer that question. Please reflect on it.
STORY: A Passage in Life's JourneyI arrived at the address where someone had requested a taxi. I honked but no one came out. I honked again, nothing. 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 90'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 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, and 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 neighbourhood 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 someone who was impatient to end his shift?
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. Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance.
