Everything had taken a turn, separating all that had been from what was yet to come.  In one corner of the closet in Sara’s old bedroom, she found her mother’s memorabilia instead of hers. On the top shelf in what appeared to be a century of dust and cobwebs, an old tobacco tin nestled like a pearl in an oyster among books with moldy pressed flowers. In an act of genuflection, Sara caressed the surface of the box, the embossed rose on its lid almost invisible. Holding it to her breast, she imagined it held precious artifacts that preserved the family story or a version of it. To the linguist turned archivist, it was the golden egg, the conjuror’s dream.

The box, not much larger than a shoe box, was packed like a time capsule. In it Sara discovered relics that were little more than trash as de facto treasure: a piece of green glass the letter C nearly invisible, a dried wishbone, a torn yellowed slip of paper, and a brown sack folded into a bird-like figure. Juxtaposed to the found treasure were items of more sentimental value: a cracked wedding band, a tarnished pocket watch, a gold pin, a leather-bound diary, and a faded shirtwaist dress of black and yellow print.  Sara assumed this medicine box of leavings belonged to Sam Burden.