December 13th 2015

“This is my 17th week,” he confides to the steering wheel, as he taps a button on a smart phone hanging from the dashboard.

His kindly features betray a wish to be home at this late hour, rather than ferry a Middle Eastern looking chap across the Thames.

“I try to get home in time for dinner with the kids, but I can’t do it all the time,” now talking to the windshield covered with small droplets, almost trying to convince them.

“If I make XYZ in fares by 11AM, then the day will be good; ‘I’ll be home for dinner, tonight!’” He smiles to himself at the goals he sets himself to get through the day.

“When I return, my little son won’t let me even take my jacket off; ‘father, how do I get my playstation to do this?’, and I start laughing as if I have never laughed before.”

The lights turned green.

“My wife asks, ‘what are you laughing about?’, and I tell her, ‘it’s this boy; how quickly he’s grown.’”

When the car comes to a halt, and the man taps the phone again, the passenger feels sad; he can’t continue to listen to the genteel soul in the front.

Peace and love,

Ja’far

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