Fragments

She found the body fragments when she cleaned the attic. All dried and shriveled up in a wooden box—teeth, hair, nails, umbilical cord. Five sets of each in envelopes, named and dated. She wished it was a memory box, but it wasn’t. She did not have any children.

“Jake! Jake!” She came to wake her husband, who sprawled out on the couch. The place he spent most days now.

“Where’re these from?” She asked.

His dull eyes landed on the box. Unfit. Alcoholic. Abusive. Psych facility. He chugged the rest of the beer. Burped.

“Don’t recall. Where’s my breakfast?”