I collect bones… Skulls and fingers and teeth from smiling jaws, I dig up, brush off, and polish smooth. Many now I have, piled high around me. I know their faces, their voices, can see their walk and hear their laughter. Among the bones I find truth in and of my past. I can search through what these bones really are: names and faces, and words written on faded paper in old-fashioned writing. I have come to know those who have come before, as if I am indeed holding them in my hand, solid and smooth. Once I visited a graveyard in the most perfect spot I could imagine. It…