I took Lyft to pick up my daughter. The driver was an older man. I asked a few questions and he talked a lot about his life, about India, about Brampton, about being penniless when he first came, about his son’s job in Barrie, about crime in Brampton and the three hundred thousand kilometers he put on in four years on his 2021 Toyota. I thanked him and as I got out of the car checked I didn’t forget anything. I did. I screwed up. My keys sunk into the upholstery crack. Those keys were for the Tranzac, my house, my car, my brother’s apartment, my mother-in-law’s house and my studio. I was not too familiar with the school in North York where I was picking up my daughter. Eventually I found her and we started heading to the subway, which was why I took the Lyft in the first place. She was late for an appointment and I needed to chaperone. There was the old driver again. He saw my keys and turned around to try and find me. He asked people for help but nobody in this school knew me. It was so random, so impossible that I would forget them and that he would make great effort to try finding me. I was grateful. I thought I’ll leave a big tip and write him up for his kindness. On the app there are only sections for complaining. Just headings to dispute fares or express disappointment. Nowhere can I record and commend that this guy is a saint and awesome. It reminded me of a few music business parts. The invisible kindness. Certain studio engineers who stay late to fix your mistakes. Certain players who add their soul into a song. The small miracles that vanish without applause.