As I ran out the door this morning to keep a nine a.m. appointment with my accountant, I took one last stab and found the remortgaging papers he would need. Most years, my books are so up-to-date and well done that I hand him one cover sheet with both personal and business tax info, and all he has to do is recopy the numbers to the form and do accounting magic with the depreciation, small business deductions, and we’re good to go. I also usually have the stuff to him by mid-February. It’s just been that kind of year. But I have amazed even myself at pulling together all the information he needed, pulling off a holiday dinner for twelve, and getting the framing and housework done as well. No matter what, it seems I’m made of sturdy stock and manage to get things done in the end.
Took my dad to the Senior Citizen’s Center today to fill out the forms for the elderly property tax freeze he must fill out every two years. At first he didn’t want to sit down in the only available chair by the desk at which we met with the woman who handled this, instead motioning me to use it. The lady kept telling him to sit down, not realizing what he was doing for both me, and every woman who walked up to the desk. She probably felt he was senile–having to work daily with the elderly has possibly preconditioned her–until I explained that he was being a gentleman. She was much nicer to us after that.
After we got back home, I gave him a much-needed haircut. It makes me nervous because I notice how paper-thin his skin is, how fragile it faces the gleaming scissor blades as I cut. I keep my fingers at the scissor tips as I trim around his ears, and sure enough, I snip the tip of a finger. But I am young, I will heal.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology