The morning sun came bright and clean through the tall windows, across the warm oak floors, over the framed photographs on the mantel — pictures of my daughters, of Arthur, of a life.

Through the open patio doors the spring air carried the sweet smell of apple blossom and pine.

And out on the sunlit lawn, my five-year-old twin daughters, Lily and Maya, were conducting a very serious military expedition.

They marched, giggling helplessly, through the tall grass behind General Arthur Reed, who moved slowly ahead of them with his wooden cane, gravely leading the patrol.

Lily had his ceremonial officer’s cap perched crooked on her dark curls.

Maya was studying one of his golden service ribbons as though it held the secrets of the universe.