A couple years ago, when I had to go to Bingham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, I took a cab from Hanscom Airport. What could have been a dull forty- minute ride in heavy traffic turned out to be an entertaining and inspirational event. One of life’s unexpected surprises.
I stood inside the door at the FBO, waiting for my cab that arrived shortly. The taxi driver jumped out while opening an umbrella and came around to my side with the jauntiness of a twenty-year old. He looked to be in his sixties with a grey, trimmed beard, mustache and bald head. I guess around 5’6” tall. Slightly rotund in the middle. A smile stretched across his kind-looking face as he held the umbrella for me and opened the door. “And how are you on this beautiful day?” I smiled and said fine though I was amused at his remark since it was cold and raining torrentially. As I slid into the back seat, I caught a glimpse of his iridescent and dancing blue eyes.
We had barely pulled away from the curb when he started. “Where you comin’ from?”
“Maine.”
“Oh yeah? I love that state. Haven’t been there in many years though. My relatives are all from Mass. Came over on the first boats from England.” He paused as he changed lanes. “Some went to Maine. Eastport.” I managed to get in a few remarks between his so he knew I was listening. I could see him glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure. “Name’s Thomas. Tom. Used to drive trucks. Lonely tiresome job. Cab driving better. I like to meet different people from all over the world. Can’t drive at night anymore. Just turned 60 and lights bother my eyes. You know what I mean?” He spoke in a rapid Massachusetts accent.
”Yes. I don’t like to drive at night anymore for ...”
“Do you like poetry?” He interrupted, his eyes lighting up even more in the rear mirror.
“Yes, I do and…”
“I like to write poetry,” he said, emphasizing write. “I posted the last one on Facebook. About a female helicopter pilot killed in Afghanistan. Didn’t know her personally. Just saw her body in a carrion on TV and was moved. I can only write when I get angry or moved by something or someone. She was just 23.” Tom turned and looked at me to see my response. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes. I would very much like to hear it but I don’t want you to take your eyes off these lanes in order to read. Can you give me your cell phone so I can read it?” As much as I was moved to hear this poem, I certainly didn’t want our corpses littering the highway.
“No problem. I’ll recite it for you.” And he did. Unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of memory to now repeat it verbatim. Only the essence. I had tears slipping down my face.
Tom spoke the lines rhythmically with reverence and caring. His expressive and descriptive poem painted a beautiful, strong dedicated young woman thinking about getting back home to the States to marry her fiancé. Though loyal to her country, she questioned the reason why she and her colleagues were there. She grieved for her fellow soldiers who had died. For the innocent Afghanistan women and children who had died. Tom’s lyrical words reflected the loss of her never having had the love and touch of a child. Of not watching her children grow. He brought her to life in that cab.
Suddenly, I realized we were in the medical district, soon to be at my drop off. I wanted to keep going. Not get out of the cab. Hear more of Thomas’ poems. As we pulled up to the curb, he turned and showed me a Nikon camera. “I always carry my camera. You never know when you will see something, some image you want to keep.” He started to turn it on to show me some of the digital photos he had taken, but, “Darn. Battery’s gone.” Car horns were blaring for us to move.
As I handed him the money and started to get out of the cab, he said, “By the way, does a Newfie live near you? Are you any relation to Nelson? I had forgotten the airport manager had called to reserve the cab and had used my name.
“No and no. Thank you for the ride and for sharing your eloquent poem.” He gave me a big grin and a thumbs up sign. My lucky day.