Yesterday, friends and family of Isabella’s husband gathered at the unnamed university’s gardens, where Isabella’s family had spent many afternoons over the years. He knew the Latin names of plants and thought nothing of it. He was gentle and erudite, and so funny. In the hospital, he spoke to us only in Spanish, though he never said why. So there we were in the gardens on a brilliantly sunny Sunday morning, The deacon talked, the cousins remembered their childhood together in a reasonably Irish suburb of Boston, Isabella said she’d had no idea how many people loved them. Neil’s beautiful daughters gave up any pretense at composure and wiped their eyes on his sleeves. They’re all flying back to Seattle today, leaving behind a quiet that surprised me. It’s also the first rest day on the Tour de France, and to my chagrin, time passes.