My father passed away Tuesday night. He'd worked a full day Sunday, but didn't feel well Monday and by Tuesday was having difficulty breathing, possibly a relapse of a pneumonia he'd had in February. He died within an hour of arriving in the ER.

One of the great mysteries of my dad's life was how much he enjoyed doing other people's taxes. One tax return a year is more than enough for most people, but he prepared over a hundred every year, for 25 years. He didn't need the extra income. There were easier ways to learn about the yearly changes in tax law. And the time he spent working was time he could have spent doing whatever he pleased.

But there were intangible benefits. His clients came back to him year after year. When his office moved, as it did several times, his clients followed him to his new location. He in turn was able to follow the lives of his clients. He had this chance to check in on them once a year and see how they were doing.

My first indoor job, more than 20 years ago, was in the storefront office where he worked. I stapled forms, stuffed envelopes, and operated a zeodilith, a prehistoric photocopier that used gaseous ammonia and special yellow paper.

Dad did my taxes that year, and every year after that. I became one of the loyal clients that followed him wherever he went.

I realized early on that this annual ritual gave us a chance to talk about the year that had passed. Under the guise of filling out forms and digging through receipts, we could have a long conversation about the events in our lives. I got married, went back to school, bought a house, changed jobs, had children. All things that had tax consequences.

Last year, it was Mom's health that seemed uncertain, and he and I talked about many serious things. We didn't talk about them as if anything were imminent, but merely with the awareness that some things were no longer too far away to ignore.

At one point, in a moment of uncharacteristic introspection, at least in my presence, he said to me, "I plan on living to be a hundred. But if for some reason that doesn't happen, I will still be content. I've had a good life. Your mother and I have had 40 years together. I'm proud of my children and the families they've started. And even though I can't run around with them, I hope my grandchildren know how much I love them."

This year, after some difficult months of chemotherapy, Mom's condition is greatly improved, and my conversation with my Dad turned to less weighty matters. How much coffee each of us could tolerate. What I'd seen through my telescope. How quickly my children were learning, and whether we'd ever get enough snow this winter to take them sledding. Two cups, Saturn in the Pleiades, incredibly fast, and nope.