I look across shadowed lawns as early October sun gilds gabled slate roofs and fluted chimneys and slides down the storybook outer walls of Bhaktivedanta Manor, lighting the mullioned windows to rooms upstairs where you so recently played with us. I remember the unusual beauty of your face and mouth, the flowing ease and subtle lines of cheeks and crinkles wrapping around and punctuating another perfect mood, your dancing eyes, now somber, unmoving in thought, now wide and full of mischief. I recall the soft golden flesh of your shoulder and the surprising hard tissues beneath it, the flow of blue veins under forearms, behind knees—how they throbbed with a cool, even pulse as you lounged in the sun and roared with power when you danced all day. Watching you shave always had me in stitches—the wide intent eyes and grimaces as you swiveled the mirror to see that your tilak was straight or to check on a possible loose tooth. I remember how you dressed yourself slowly, keenly observing each cloth before choosing, then tied and tucked your dhoti with care. Nor can I forget quick pink fingers at your buttonholes, and how sometimes you leaned forward for me to close the one at the neck.