Pulling boxes apart, making stacks of odds and ends, trying to make sense of what was kept and why. A drug store calendar from 1966. A union pamphlet on worker safety. Two glass jars that had been filled with chunky peanut butter but now house little more than dust. The advertisements and labels on the boxes don’t reflect what’s inside. A box for an AM clock radio is really a balding Santa Claus and some woodland friends. A box with the innocuous title papers is photos and letters from a time before a marriage fell apart, when the people in the photos smiled with young pride. An entire lifetime of a man who was raised to never throw anything away stretches out in front of me, stacked like mismatched nesting dolls. I wish he was here to talk me through it all, explain what it all means, but all I can do is look for comfort in the boxes stacked around me.