”Music, please,” I tell my new driver quietly.
“Yes, sir,” Michael replies.
My car is second in the procession. My driver is ahead of me for the first time in fifty years. He’s ahead of me because this is his procession. My Driver died three days ago.
It’s a bleary day today: cold, overcast, with sleet. I can still hear his voice: “We have to go slow today, Master Craig. We’ll still get you to school, but you’ll be safe.”
My Driver, a man that committed his life to mine; My Driver, a simple, quiet man from some small town in some small place, had been hired by my father when it was discovered that I would never learn to drive.
As his procession winds its way through The Plaza, we pass the estate where he arrived every morning to drive me.
Clarelle, my wife of fifteen years sits beside me, leans over, and kisses me on the cheek.
“Honey,” she says.
I wave her off, crying and staring out the window. I miss my Driver so much already.