9

I'm confused about what day of the week it is. I know exactly how many days, hours, tax returns, until April 15th but no clue as to whether it's Monday or Tuesday. Not that it matters.

I can tell when it's Saturday or Sunday, though, when I get to the office and the only cars in the lot belong to accountants. I get there and usually park several spaces from a red pickup truck belonging to another accountant in a different office in our building. Long past being embarrassed about fast food diets, we get out of our cars balancing Starbucks coffees with sacks of McDonald's goodness and head to our respective doors while fishing key cards out of our pockets.

We give nods to each other that say, "Hang in there. It's almost over. We can make it - as long as we don't spend too much time thinking. Of family. Of outdoors. Of sleep. Of how much is left to do.  God speed, my friend. And, good luck."

We've never spoken to each other. I don't even know his name. But from his ball cap, the tired glaze in his eyes, the wrinkled clothes, and bedroom slippers, I know exactly his struggles. The need to push forward. Finish. Keep going.

I still have 43 tax returns to go. I shouldn't have looked. This is not a number I need to know. I just need to know that at 9 am I'll be doing one. And, then, I'll be doing another one. It's fatal to look at the big picture.

How could I still have 43?

I might need more coffee.