I had to pound on the taxi to get his attention.
“Is your taxi available?” I asked when he finally looked up at me from behind the wheel.
He nodded, started the motor, and then apologized, “I’m sorry, but I was reading a letter.” He sounded as if he had a cold or a cough.
“I’m in no hurry,” I told him. “Go ahead and finish your letter.”
He shook his head. “I’ve read it several times already. I guess I almost know it by heart.” He started the taxi’s meter.
Estimating that he was 60 or 70 years old, I asked: “From a child or maybe a grandchild?”
“This isn’t family,” he replied. “Although,” he went on, “come to think of it, he might just as well have been a regular member of the family. Old Ed and I grew up together.”
“There aren’t many people who’ve been friends for such a long length of time,” I said.
“Actually,” the driver went on, “I had seen him not more than once or twice a year over the past 25 or 30 years because I moved away from the old neighborhood. He was a great guy.”
“You said ‘was’. Does that mean—?”
He nodded. “He died a couple of weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “his death must be quite a blow to you.”
He didn’t reply to that, and we rode on in silence for a few minutes. Then he spoke again, almost more to himself than to me: “I should have kept in touch. Yes,” he repeated, “I should have kept in touch.”
“Well,” I agreed, “we should all keep in touch with old friends more than we do. But things come up and we just don’t seem to find the time.”
“We used to find the time,” he said. “That’s even mentioned in the letter.” He handed it over to me. “Take a look.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t want to read your mail. That’s pretty personal.”
The driver said, “Old Ed’s dead. There’s nothing personal now. Go ahead.” He pulled the letter from its plain white envelope and unfolded it.
The first sentence reminded me of myself: I’ve been meaning to write for some time, but I’ve always delayed it. It then went on to say that he often thought about the good times they had had together. It referred to many things that had happened when they were young.
“You must have spent a lot of time together,” I said to him.
“We did. But for the last 20 or 30 years it’s generally just been postcards at Christmas time.”
“This is a good part here,” I said. “Where it says, Your friendship over the years has really meant a lot to me, more than I can say because I’m not good at saying things like that.” I found myself nodding in agreement.
We had gone several kilometers and were almost at my hotel, so I read the last paragraph: So I thought you’d like to know that I was thinking of you. And it was signed, Your Old Friend, Tom. Tom? The letter was signed Tom?
“I thought your friend’s name was Ed,” I said.
“I’m Tom,” he explained. “It’s a letter I wrote to Ed before I knew that he’d died. I never put it in the mailbox. It was never delivered.”
His face was pale as he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “I guess I should have written it sooner.”
When I got to my hotel room I didn’t unpack right away. First, I had to write a letter — and post it.
Words: 603
The Letter 课文讲解
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