I was utterly numb when I left the hospital after my mother’s death. I simply got into the first taxi I saw because I had no plan and no idea where I was heading. The tears swept over me as soon as I closed the door. The breathtakingly hideous, unstoppable sort. I was unable to talk. Even forcing out an address was impossible for me. In the back seat, I was simply crying and trembling.
Instead of asking me questions or urging me to hurry up, the driver immediately pulled over after taking a quick look in the mirror. “Until your body catches up with your heart, we’re not going anywhere,” he whispered quietly as he leaned ahead and switched off the meter.
There’s no pressure. No clumsy sympathy. Just be at ease.
He went outside, went to a nearby cart, and returned with hot tea. As if it were the most commonplace item in the world, he calmly placed it in my shaking hands. He then took the front seat, facing ahead, so I could collapse without worrying about being seen. He didn’t interrupt me. He made no attempt to rectify it. He simply stayed.
“You’re not broken,” he remarked, shaking his head as I eventually choked out an apology. You’re in mourning. There is a distinction.
We resumed our drive, and for a while I was so tired that I just stared out the window. After a few minutes, I realized we weren’t traveling in the direction I had anticipated. My gut knotted—until he decelerated and came to a stop in front of a small flower shop nestled between two shuttered shops.
Without giving a reason, he left, chatted with the florist for a moment, and came back with a little bunch of white flowers. “No one should go home empty-handed on a day like today,” he remarked, passing them to me.
I was unaware of his name. He was unaware of mine. However, his generosity felt like a firm grasp in that instant, like a hand extending in the dark and grabbing me just before I hit the floor.
