How can I begin to describe a man, when hired by my father in 1967 when I developed a rare muscoskeleton condition rendering me lame in my right leg; a man from some town in Italy that agreed to drive me wherever I could never drive myself; a man that only, even at the time of his death addressed me as Boy.
All I ever hear now is his voice explaining things to that my father was always too busy to say. All the things a boy needs to hear. His voice, like mine, changed over the decades. From a youthful Italian lilt, to a dark tawny, and finally a deep, dark raspiness.
I’m now standing at his grave, the steering wheel from the last car he drove me in, awaiting to place it atop his casket. How does anyone thank anyone for his lifetime? My Driver, sadly, will never know that it was he, and only he, that made me a man.