The Promise

The Freeway traffic is not moving. Why?

The line of traffic stretched back as far as Jack could see through his rear- vision mirror.

“I’m going to miss it, Mum,”

“It’s okay, love, these things can’t be helped, it’s all part of learning to drive.”

“But it’s not even moving! Come on!” He yelled. Knuckles whitening, he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Jack, stop stressing. There’s a reason for the hold up,” she reasoned, maybe a crash, someone’s worst day.”

The driver in the vehicle a few cars in front of Jack cut his engine. “What the hell is going on?” he growled, “we’ve not moved for at least twenty minutes!”

“What are you doing? His girlfriend tried to grab his arm as he opened his door and stepped out. He stood on the bitumen, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun bouncing off the lines of cars in front. Attempting to see what the hold up could be, he called, “I can see flashing lights,must be an accident, or maybe some fool was changing a tyre and got himself wiped.”

“Gee, Vinnie, do you always have to think the worst?”

“Well, it’s gotta be something serious, this traffic’s not going anywhere!”

“Get back in the car before you’re the next victim, you idiot.”


Similar conversations such as these were taking place in each vehicle stuck in the holdup, some drivers were taking the laid-back approach, whilst other ranted and raved at the injustice a traffic jam was ruining their day. But what they all had in common was the fact no one was going anywhere for a while.


The first car had a front row seat to the drama unfolding on the traffic bridge over Highway 1 on this beautiful spring morning. High above them the police were speaking to an old man who seemed intent on throwing something down on to unsuspecting traffic below.

“Sorry mate it’s an offence to throw anything from the bridge, I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to come with me. Let’s get this traffic moving, shall we?” he said patiently.

The old man was arguing, “It’s nothing, it's harmless, Officer. It’s something I promised my wife, I can’t let her down. “

“Look, sir. Look at all the traffic below. Everyone is stuck there, just waiting. We can’t allow you to throw things from the bridge, you might hurt someone, can’t you see?”

The man shook his head. “This can’t possibly hurt anyone.” He held up the square container he’d been grasping in his gnarled hands. “I promised,” he sobbed. “Let me go!” Before the officer could react, the old man darted towards the railing with surprising agility. He flipped open the small square container and scattered its contents into the air.

Motorists who had stepped from their vehicles and faces tipped toward the action on the bridge, began to cough, as clouds of grey dust floated down, covering them in a gritty film.

“You’d better come clean about what that substance was, sir.” The cop peered on to the frantic scene below and shook his head in frustration, “I’ll need to call forensics now,” he muttered. The police officer angrily pulled out his handcuffs and was about to cuff the perpetrator.

“Wait! Let me explain,” the old man’s voice shook with emotion.

“You see, my wife died last week,” he paused.

“Sixty years we’d been married,” his voice broke.

The police officer placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“She said to me, before she left—George, promise me you’ll scatter my ashes on Highway 1.

“Ashes? Is that what that was?” the cop said, in disbelief, “why on earth would anyone want their ashes spread on a highway?”

“We loved road trips you see,” George smiled at the thought, “loved nothing more than driving long distances together and this road was always the start and finish of all of them.” He nodded and held out his hands. “Do your best, son,” he smiled, “I fulfilled my promise.”