Deacon Paul Nghia Pham

THE LAST RIDE

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” — Psalm 90:12

He almost drove away.

It was late — the last fare of the shift — and the kind of apartment building where most people came down right after you honked. He pressed the horn once. Waited. Pressed it again.

Nothing.

He looked at the clock on the dashboard and muttered, “Well… that’s a sign from heaven,” and reached for the gear shift.

But something nudged him — not loudly — just enough.

He sighed, put the car in park, and stepped out.

The hallway light above the door flickered in a tired kind of way, as if it was also ready to clock out for the night. When he knocked, there was shuffling on the other side. Something dragged slowly across the floor.

A voice came through the door — thin, careful.

“Just a minute, dear…”

He waited. The lock clicked. The door opened.

She stood there — small, dressed in a printed dress with a little pillbox hat perched on her head, veil pinned neatly in place — as if she had accidentally stepped out of a film from 1948.

A single suitcase rested by her feet.

The apartment behind her felt like a memory museum — furniture covered in sheets, counters empty, a lone cardboard box filled with old photographs and glassware. The kind of room where time had packed itself gently away.

She followed his eyes, smiled faintly.

“It’s all ready,” she said. “Been getting ready for a while.”

He nodded, suddenly unsure what to say.

“May I carry your bag for you?”

“Yes, please. And thank you for waiting,” she added softly. “Not everyone does.”

He offered his arm. She took it.

“You’re very kind,” she said as they shuffled toward the curb. “I hope people are kind to your mother.”

He swallowed.

“I… hope so too.”

They settled into the cab. She gave him an address — then rested her hand lightly on the back of his seat.

“Would you mind,” she asked, “taking the long way? Through downtown?”

He glanced at the meter.

“It isn’t the shortest way.”

Her smile didn’t fade.

“Oh, that’s all right. I’m not in a hurry.”

There was a pause — the gentle kind that has weight.

“I’m going to the hospice.”

His hand slowly reached for the meter… and turned it off.

“What route would you like?” he asked.

They drove.

Not through streets — but through years.

“That building there,” she said, pointing toward an aging stone structure. “I worked the elevator in that place. Knew everyone by their shoes.”

She laughed.

“God and I had many talks in that elevator. Mostly about broken buttons… and broken people.”

He smiled without meaning to.

They turned into a neighborhood of narrow porches and leaning fences.

“That one,” she said. “That was our house. It rained in the kitchen whenever the wind misbehaved. We called it ‘conversation from heaven.’”

Her voice stayed light — but there was a softness inside it.

Later she asked him to stop near an old warehouse.

“There used to be a ballroom there,” she whispered. “He twirled me so fast I thought my shoes were going to resign.”

She laughed again — then grew still — as if the building was breathing memories back to her.

Sometimes she asked him to slow without explaining why. Sometimes she said nothing at all.

He remembered a line his grandmother used to say — something about numbering days — and for the first time in years, it didn’t sound like something written in a book.

It sounded like something happening in the back seat of his cab.

Dawn teased the horizon with the faintest line of light.

“I think I’m tired now,” she said gently. “We can go.”

They finished the ride in silence.

The building was small — brick, warm-looking, ordinary. Two attendants waited under the portico, the way you wait when you already know someone is precious before they even arrive.

He took her suitcase to the door. When he turned back, she was already in the wheelchair, hat still set with quiet dignity.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, hand moving toward her purse.

“Nothing.”

“You must make a living,” she said — more a memory than an argument.

“There will be other passengers,” he replied — though they both knew there wouldn’t be.

He bent and hugged her.

It surprised both of them.

She held on longer than he expected.

“You gave an old woman a small piece of joy,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

He nodded — because words felt smaller than the moment.

The door closed softly.

He stood for a second and thought — That… sounds like a door that knows what it means to close.

He didn’t take another fare.

He drove — not aimlessly — just gently — through streets that looked the same and didn’t feel the same.

He thought of all the ways that night could have gone differently.

What if he hadn’t waited?
What if he had honked and left?
What if she had stepped into a quieter car… with a quieter heart?

He didn’t say any of it out loud.

He just drove — while the city slowly woke and morning light settled across the windshield.

Somewhere between one traffic light and the next, that old verse brushed quietly across his thoughts again —

Not written.
Not recited.

Just… present.

And for the first time, he didn’t hear it.

He felt it.