When I remember my dad, it’s often like this: in a moment of quiet thoughtfulness, smoking a cigarette, looking out over the lawn. This photo must have been from 2006 or 2007, out on the edge of grandma’s garden during a game of croquet. My uncles argue endlessly about the rules of croquet—someone always has the manual tucked in his back pocket for reference—but my dad never seemed to get involved. He was the youngest of six boys, so maybe this was strategy, to just let them fight it out amongst themselves. He adored patience, wisdom, the virtue of restraint. I can hear him, still, with total clarity, always starting a piece of advice with the words, “well, you know, Mark…” everything a lesson, the hint of a smile as he delivered a particularly well-packaged koan. He would be 65 now. I wonder what he would have been like as a retiree. It’s not hard to imagine.