Uber Ride at Christmas

Every backseat transit is a ritual — a baptism,a confirmation; in the worst case, last rites. At first,I think Giorgos is sermonising — antic language,prattling hands, eyes rear-viewed to mine.He opens with the virus: all these cases —only the old ones die, eighty, ninety, what does it matter?I tune out as quick as if he were a priest,but when he tells me how his wife,who loved him, fed him, and blessed himfor thirty-seven unremarkable years,died in front of him at the dinner table one eveningeight months ago, I wonder if this is a confession.Who am I to close the grille on such an act of faith?I listen to his litany of care, dazzling in its ordinariness,its everyday magnificence, and my eyes mirror his tears.I will pray for his release. Outside, Christmas revellersshine in late-December sun; a well-known facesells the Big Issue at the same old pitch. Alighting,Giorgos urges care — wear your mask, stay healthy.I touch him on the shoulder, am absolved.