Fifteen years ago, I drove a taxi for a living. One day I went to pick up a passenger at 2:40 a. m. When I arrived there, I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a weak, elderly voice.
After a while, the door opened. A small woman stood before me. She was more than eighty years old. By her side was a big bag.
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 (临终安养院) . I don't have any family left. The doctor says I don't have much time left."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter (计程表) .
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, and the place where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow down in front of a special building and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
"How much do I owe 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 gave her a hug (拥抱) . She held me and said, "You gave an old woman a moment of joy."
