It was winter when Francis came to stay. Around noon I saw his car, a large family estate, approaching slowly up the track. Our courtyard is spacious, he could've swung in almost anywhere, but Francis parked as if he feared it would be a struggle to get out later on, turning around and leaving his front end pointing back towards the lane. He parked, I thought, like it was the day of your funeral all over again. That was the last time he'd been here, the last time I'd had visitors and vehicles at the house in any great number. For your wake, Anna. For your burial and your wake.