Beside the gravel pile, the lizard warms himself in the dazzling greenness of his life, watching us casually through half-lidded eyes. It is May. Next week he would have been 57. My daughter holds my hand, 3 years old and ignorant, the airsickness forgotten, and the hurried trip and interrupted sleep. Below the road the whiteface cattle graze in the morning peace. The house is quiet. Inside, his daughters stare unbelieving into coffee cups, unable to imagine the future. My child throws some gravel and the lizard fixes us with both eyes, but does not run, unwilling to leave the warmth of the sun. I can hear everything so clearly. Years later she will ask what he was like, her grandfather. And I will try to remember the greenness of this lizard, he loved the sun so.