The Uber driver is a quiet, shy man in his thirties. Doesn’t even make eye contact upon greeting me. It’s a stormy December evening in Toronto. I have no business being out on the road. But here I am, and so is he. It’s snowing the way it does in Disney movies. The city carries the burden of a million cotton balls that enunciate the shape of whatever they touch. Cars careen carefully on the slushy streets, sliding this way and that, like drunkards. I feel safe though—in this man’s brotherly presence and behind the wheel, his competence. A song comes on from his playlist. A soulful but obscure Bollywood number from the late 90s. Can you turn up the volume, please? I ask. Turn it down? He sounds confused. No, up. He looks at me in the rearview mirror. Stares for a while. Oh…you understand this? I could be anything. He hadn’t realized we were the same thing. He cranks up the volume. I mouth the lyrics trickling out of me. Memory is a funny thing. He starts singing in a mellifluous voice—always an indication of a kind heart. I join him, singing out loud now. We sing together till the song ends, the ride ends. The snow keeps going.
This Poem is a Message in a Bottle
Ain Khan is a writer, gardener and photographer, residing in Ottawa, Canada. While she has previously published prose with the Canadian Broadcasting Commission (CBC), this is the first time her poetry has been published.