Now, three dirt encased boxes… oozing aged excreta, set side by side on my not so clean kitchen floor. Bob says, “Hey Artie - help me pull this table apart so we can install the center leaf… also, go out to the back screen porch and grab three more vinyl chairs, bring them in, ah don’t bother to wipe them off, it won’t matter. Position them around the table evenly.” I’m thinking, “Yea, why don’t you sweep up your crummy mud mess.” What we did next, I found to be utterly mortifying. (As you can see, Bob and Art are always at odds) Clutching onto his old claw hammer, Bob struck hard at the rusty latches on the first box, not caring that a piece of metal hit close to my good eye, drawing a trickle of blood. “Hey watch what you’re doing, slow down.” I let him know! When we pried the squeaky lid open, laying it back against the wall…it now seemed that I was even farther behind the eight ball, as of what might be happening here. This box was dated august 18, 1958. Inside lay a rather small, roughly sixty-inch long skeleton, with rotted pieces of clothing strewn at its sides. The skull featured a mop of auburn hair; the same as I had seen stuck in the brush in the upstairs bedroom, all her teeth were still in place. Believe it or not, her fingernails still had polish on them. Surprising, there was little smell; I guess after all those years? “Ok Bob, what’s going on? Let me in on your madness or I won’t help with whatever you’ve set your mind to, I need to know or I’m walking?” Bob: “Ok, okay. The person here in the first box is my mom…” He stares longingly, as in a trance. A trickle of taffy water expanded into a plump droplet - releasing from his bristly cheek, splattering, as it hit on Arlene’s skull; I could have sworn at that very moment, I noted an easy moan rise from that hallowed box… I bowed my head in reverence. Bob continues, “In the next box, dated November 17, 1966, is my pappy. In the last box, dated august 18, 2010 is Grammy. She died in the same month and day as my mom. 52 years apart. So, what I’m doing, trying to do, is bring them home, for good. You and me, we will set each one at the kitchen table with their arms placed on top, supporting them by invisible means. Then we’re both going to search this house for artifacts that belong to each one of them. I will position those things as I see fit. That’s why we extended the table as large as possible. We need plenty of room for all of us.” Art: “This is nuts, you’ll be arrested when the local officials find out what you did at the gravesites. But hey, it’s your party, if that’s what you want to do, let’s do it.” Both of us scoured the house top to bottom, attic to basement. Bob made the climb up to the attic, taking with him a large cardboard box to gather effects which Grammy stored after pappy died. On the first floor, I boxed up Grammy’s toothbrush, hairbrush, two bottles of cologne, her favorite dress, and shoes. I also found the last bar of soap she had been using before she moved on. In the waste can, I dug out a slightly used tissue. Grammy used to stick them into her right sleeve so she always had one handy. In her nightstand, I found a pair of half nylons. She would wear them rolled partway down on her calves, usually in summer when she worked in the garden. As I was finishing up, I could swear I heard crying and sniffling coming from the vents, which connected to Arlene’s bedroom. Quietly, light-footed as an Indian brave, I made my way over to the base of the steps; but by then Bob was making his way down those creaky steps, so I headed back to the kitchen with my box of articles. Altogether we had three large cardboard boxes, filled, one for each person.