Missing Dave

It would have been so nice if he was here today, now in fact. He would have been able to get the attention of that distracted taxi driver. Dave, may he be in peace wherever he is, had a way with his voice. And his arms. He just commanded attention.

It has been, what, eleven years now?

What’s with the taxis, where have they all gone – you’d think they would be out here on a Saturday evening – with all these young kids wanting to go to parties and all. Perhaps they prefer the longer routes. Bless Dave, at least I can still afford a taxi – if I get one, that is. There, another one goes without noticing me. I wish I had half the strength of Dave’s voice. Maybe the taxi driver would hear me then. This feeble arm in this pastel sleeve hardly stands out in this riot of a colour that this town has become.

Seems it is going to be a while, I’d rather let the bags down. Ahh – it has begun to pain, this left arm of mine. I hope it’s just the bags. I doubt if I can afford any more medicines for a new ailment now. It’s getting late already, I still need to cook, I think I will sleep early today. Jane is coming tomorrow – it would be lovely to see the kids tomorrow.


They don’t notice me any more. No one does, really, why single out the taxis? I am fading into the past, I suppose. Look at all these busybodies – going fast and forward. Ah, well, I guess I’d rather take the bus after all. I’ll save the money, maybe get a few apples and bake a pie. Dave used to call me the apple of his pie. How, I miss you, dear. You are long gone, but you still bring a smile to my face.

This young man doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Looking at him, reminds me of our summer evenings. Just sitting there in the sun.

He is a writer perhaps. Does he write about old people, I wonder?


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