Short Tales of Hope: The Drive Home

Work had been hard. Not difficult hard, no complexity or complication — which would have been strangely welcome — just the endless repetition of meetings, of the chink of cheap china cups, the scrunching of celephane wrappers on a working lunch.

So Ben was pleased when, after the final meet of the day, he remembered his car parked in one of the small spaces beneath the office building. A perk of his recent promotion, a little luxury, a commute devoid of stranger’s coughs and the reverberating tin of teenage headphones.

The drive home was short but stalling, traffic, a steady diet of 2nd gear frustration. He turned the final corner into his street, mind still cursing the driver of the Ford Focus who had taken too long to turn across traffic and held him up.

The street was bathed in the red orange of sunset dipping behind the trees. A sun so quietly vibrant it seemed to be shining out of the windows of the houses themselves. It took him aback, reminding him with force of the wonder of the world. He saw his children smiling up at him. He remembered the powerful promise of their small lives, the desire to build a better world. He remembered the insignificance of an overrunning meeting, of a queue of traffic, and his frustration melted away. His car now parked on the drive, he smiled and went inside.

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