In her later years, Gran’s driving slowed to a pace that could generously be described as “contemplative.”
One Saturday morning we were making our way along Claremont Main Road—normally a chaotic, bumper-to-bumper affair. Shops buzzing, taxis darting, people everywhere. Except, according to Gran, it wasn’t.
She peered out over the steering wheel and said, with genuine wonder, “Gosh… the road is almost empty. I wonder where all the cars are.”
I had a quiet look in the rearview mirror.
“They’re not lost, Gran,” I thought. “They’ve just… formed a respectful procession behind you.”
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