There was a national extension for filing taxes. As John plunged in to the deadline he needed specific papers with numbers on them. Important numbers. Receipts. Benefits. Medical records. My best guesses around quilt sales. They were here somewhere. I have seen them. When I wasn't looking for them that is.
Every spring it is my resolve to keep better track the next year, so that the interaction between John and me is as uncharged as asking to pass the salt.
"Got the banking records? Mortgage payments? Copays? Thanks."
This has never quite been the case, but one can dream. Dreaming is non taxable. It is just that these documents, the ones he needs NOW have abruptly been promoted to crucial, when for the last eight months they were clutter.
Hence the hunt.
In a conversation last week with a woman whose life is harder than she signed up for she sighed deeply. After describing the conditions of her job, which are themselves taxing, she bemoaned losing something of value.
"I cannot find my kindness. I knew where it was before but lately it escapes me."
I pictured her trying to paw past annoyance, and pressure, to the soft underbelly of who she is. Her kindness is real. I have seen it. Felt it. Been the beneficiary of it.
Our conversation meandered to other things. She asked about my kids and I gave a few specifics. The twins going to college, Ben telling jokes.
"The twins. I remember when they were babies." Her voice quieted. She had held them, sung to them, kissed their downy heads.
And in that memory she found what she had been looking for.
