Opening the door to the bright flat in Warsaw, capacious voice booming. A welcome no one could miss in any language, his right arm sailing through the air to sweep us into the room, as if conducting a symphony of grasses and mountains. Embraced first by that smile, then hands tight on my shoulders, kisses planted between the words, linking me to another world that I had no idea was mine to hold. Heading out the door in Magdalenka, pausing in the midst of a steady stream of jovial English for a few words in Polish, stern, leaving Tom sulking over homework in three languages I did not know. At the beach in Long Island, with funny rules, protest pointless, and all three teenagers terribly embarrassed, shuffling off to drag our toes in the sand. On the trail, strolling along then suddenly bursting forward, hustling us all to the top, to dinner, to whatever next excitement lay around the corner. Soaking in the sun in Cape Cod, reading the paper, reading and talking and reading again, all the time swinging his hands through the air, a gesture nearly as wide as his smile. His smile, never just the mouth breaking wide to laugh, but a deep well of joy overflowing from his eyes, like a flash flood filling the room no matter where it began. Occasionally, unexpectedly, landing on me, a momentary enfolding so warm it made me one of the family from the first moment.