In her famous book, On Death and Dying, Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, a Swiss-American psychiatrist, outlined the five stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Over the past year, I'd gone through these stages several times. Sometimes I accepted Erin's death, but other times grief washed over me like a wave, nearly drowning me. Breast cancer took her life at thirty-one. If she'd been over forty, a scheduled mammogram might have detected the tumor. By the time it was found, it had metastasized to other areas of her body. For a year and a half, Erin fought for her life. In the end, nothing saved her.

Was it worse to feel the searing pain of anger or the overwhelming sadness of depression? My boiling anger made me feel like a stranger in my own skin.

Our parents called us 'Irish twins' due to being only eleven months apart. Caring for Erin until the end nearly killed me, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Her final wish was to die in the comfort of her own home, and her wish was granted. She was a great big sister and my rock. When I came out at twelve, she was there for me when no one else was.

During the loneliest and most confusing times of my life, Erin helped me sort through my tangled emotions. She was there when I discovered my first crush was straight and a total asshole. Another time, she convinced me to go to college instead of following a loser to Las Vegas. I would have been lost without her. Our father died when we were kids and our mother passed away three years ago, a year and a half before Erin. Apart from a few aunts, uncles, and distant cousins, Erin was my only family.

As the one year anniversary of her death neared, I contemplated the meaning of my life. What was my purpose? Over the past few days, I'd been binge watching the Apple TV show Severance. The main character, Mark, lost his wife and was a former history professor before he worked for a company called Lumen. Overcome with grief, he couldn't cope with the loss of his wife, so he chose to be 'severed.' A chip was inserted into his brain, making him forget his life as soon as he entered the elevator at work. For eight hours, he no longer had to deal with the pain. His memory was restored after he left the office building. I would gladly accept a chip in my brain or a pill that would make me magically forget all the pain in my life, even if it meant forgetting my sister. Getting out of bed was a chore. As a history teacher, like Mark, I no longer found meaning in it. Did I really make a difference in my students' lives? I doubted it.

My eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen, reading essay after essay on the Great Depression. I was so far behind, my students had already submitted two other essays since the Great Depression assignment. I decided now was a good time for another beer. As I stood up, I glanced out the window to find my elderly neighbor collecting her cats for the evening. Yesterday I shoveled and salted her walkway and stairs so she wouldn't fall and break a hip.

The crazy old cat lady next door rarely left her house, content to live there with her twelve cats. I'd often hear 1940s music emanate from her house. I never complained because I liked listening to the music. History used to be my passion. I bet the crazy old cat lady had a lot of great stories to tell, but there was only one story we all knew well.

Soon after her husband died, the crazy old cat lady claimed she got in a yellow checkered taxi cab, which then took her to Ireland in 1848 at the height of the potato famine. After a month, the same taxi picked her up and took her back home.

She wasn't called the crazy old cat lady just because she owned a dozen cats.

For years, an urban legend circulated that a taxi cab drove around at night, picking up passengers and taking them to places where they didn't want to go, but where they needed to go. Merriam Webster's Dictionary defines urban legend as 'an often lurid story or anecdote that is based on hearsay and widely circulated as true.'

I'd lived in this city my entire life, and I'd never seen this taxi, but my neighbor swore it took her back in time.

But she was more than a crazy old cat lady. She was a woman with a name. She could have been a mother, grandmother, or great grandmother. She could have been somebody's sister or aunt. All I knew was that she lost her husband twenty-five years ago and that she'd been living in that house since 1965. She took that trip to Ireland approximately one year after her husband's death.

As she approached the top step, she dropped one of the cats and tripped over the stupid thing, landing on her knees. Instinctively, I ran out of the house to help her. At least she didn't hit her head or fall on her hip.

It was one of those eerily dark nights with no moon. The street lights seemed strangely dim. In the distance, a car parked along the street with its high beams on, blinding anybody who either drove or walked by. I skidded along the snow covered road as I rushed to my neighbor.

"Oh, dear, I'm so clumsy," she said as I placed my hands under her arms, helping her one hundred pound body to her feet. Luckily, she wasn't hurt. "I always say I fall gracefully. By the way, have you seen Benny?"

"Benny? Is he your cat?"

"Yes, the black one."

Taking a peek inside the house, I spotted two black cats, assuming Benny was one of them.

"He's not inside, silly," she laughed. "He went that way."

She gestured toward her bushes. First, I helped her inside, then I searched for her damn cat. I was never an animal lover and dreaded picking Benny up, afraid he'd scratch my eyes out. The tufts of white hair on his chin helped me find him hiding under the last bush. In the freshly fallen snow, I crawled on my hands and knees, reaching for the cat.

"Thank you, Eric," she said as I transferred Benny into her arms. "Please come in for a cup of tea."

How did she know my name?

"I should really get going," I said. "I have a lot of papers to grade and..."

"Work can wait. There's always time for tea. Please, come in and join me. It's not every day a handsome man sweeps me off my feet."

"I swept you on your feet," I said, stepping into her house. I couldn't say no to a nice old lady. I expected the house to smell of mold, cat urine, and kitty litter, but I didn't smell any of those things. The house was dusty and cluttered with books and various knickknacks, which I expected from someone who'd lived in a house for as long as she did. I sat on the loveseat, ignoring the ginger cat beside me.

"Dolly, be good," she said to the cat on her way to the kitchen. Several minutes later, she returned with a tray of tea and homemade chocolate chip cookies. I couldn't refuse a homemade chocolate chip cookie. "Thank you so much for your help, Eric. You're such a nice young man. How are you coping with the anniversary of your sister's death?"

Catching me off guard, I wasn't sure how to respond. I didn't think she knew anything about me. I mean, I'd never really spoken to her before. Fighting back my tears, I brought the cup of tea to my lips.

"I have eyes and ears, don't I?" she said as if she could read my mind. "You were close to your sister, weren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said quietly, swallowing hard.

"What was her name?"

"Erin," I replied.

"Such a pretty name. Losing someone we love is so hard, but life goes on, doesn't it? You and I are both here for a reason."

I had yet to find that reason. "And what reason is that?"

"That's something you have to figure out for yourself. When I got in that taxi twenty-four years ago, I asked the driver to take me to New York City... Broadway and the Metropolitan Art Museum... Radio City Music Hall... but do you know where it took me instead?"

"No," I said, eager to hear her story in her own words.

"Munster, Ireland. It was 1848 during the great potato famine that brought so many Irish to the United States. My ancestors come from Ireland, you know."

"So, the taxi took you back in time?"

"Yes. I know it's hard to believe, but it's the honest to God's truth. I swear on Norman's life... and when I returned home, I had a new appreciation for life. What I saw there... well, I'll never forget it. I won't take life for granted again. If you could go anywhere, where would you want the taxi to take you?"

"Hmm... let me think."

This woman didn't seem as nuts as everyone said, but maybe she was a Jekyll and Hyde and would pull a knife on me any second. I was depressed, but I didn't have a death wish. As the cat purred against my leg, I thought about where I wanted to go.

"And don't say New York," she said. "I already said that."

"Can it be anywhere in the world?"

"Certainly."

"1920s Paris," I said. The 1920s was my favorite historical period to teach. I always wondered what it would be like to schmooze with the likes of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Gertrude Stein. They'd surely make my life more interesting.

"Well, if you see a yellow taxi, tell the driver to take you to 1920s Paris. I'd be interested to see where he really takes you."

"I'm curious. How do I find this taxi?" Maybe she had Alzheimer's or dementia or something. I thought it was best to humor her.

"You don't find the taxi. The taxi finds you."

"Wow, this would make for a great movie," I said.

"I suppose it would."

After I finished my tea and cookie, I politely said good night and gave her my cell number in case she ever needed me. After all that, I forgot to get her name. Because I was so tired, I decided I'd ask her another time.

As I headed across the street back to my house, the car with the high beams sped up to me and abruptly stopped, beeping once. The driver lowered his window, but I could only hear his voice. As I stepped closer to him, I felt the heavy darkness of the night, illuminated only by the bright glare of his headlights.

"Where you goin', kid?" the driver asked.

"1920s Paris?" I joked.

"Well, get in."

Since I had nothing to lose, I got in.

Words: 1890