Leo at his bike rental at shop, surrounded by his late wife’s dogs. Block Island, RI. He was the first person we’d pass after docking in the old harbor, as we made our way up the hill to our beloved inn. I can still vividly recall his wife, who sometimes joined him behind the counter, wearing black shades I don’t think she ever took off. Perhaps most of all, I remember her deep smoker’s voice, relishing the times she scratchily called me sweetie. I wasn’t able to come back to the island for a few years, after nearly a decade of annual visits. Leo looked older to me, his hair thinner and face more careworn than when I saw him last. I imagine I looked quite a bit older to him, too. We’d both been through so much.