Jerry Sikes, 67, took another trip on his four-wheeler from the garage to the dumpster in his old neighbor’s back yard. With some difficulty he heaved trash bags, heavy with memories that had been orphaned when his neighbors, Con and Susan Ryan, died. The twenty-yard dumpster was almost full now. He’d made many trips, carrying bags filled with Christmas ornaments, old trading cards, tools, accounting manuals, toys from the 1960s, financial statements and an odd assortment of pitchers, more than he could count, that once upon a time held milk and cream. 

 Con Ryan was a widower when he died at age 86. His wife Susan had passed a few months before him. Five years earlier, they lost their only child, Lou, to a particularly virulent form of cancer. He and Susan had lived in a nice, but smallish three-bedroom rancher on about an acre of land for some 60 years. The house had a full-length attic and a full basement.

 Over the years, especially after their son was out of the house, they used the storage spaces for keepsakes, like Lou’s hockey skates, as well as papers and manuals related to Con’s accounting career and volunteer work. Susan, who liked to shop at antique stores, had a penchant for pitchers of all sizes and shapes. While she would occasionally buy rare and expensive pieces, she was just as happy with ordinary, inexpensive pitchers as long as they weren’t chipped. She displayed her favorite pitchers in two lighted curio cabinets. She also collected Christmas ornaments too, thousands of them.    

 Jerry had been a longtime neighbor of the Ryan’s. When Susan died, Con gave Jerry power of attorney over his finances and his medical care. “I don’t have a soul in the world I can rely on, Jerry,” Con had said. “I’d be grateful if you’d look after things from now on.”

 Jerry had been nonplussed by his friend’s request. “Con, there must be some blood relative you can ask to do this. It’s not right to have me do it.”

 Con, whose mind was still sharp understood Jerry’s concern. “I’m moving to an assisted living facility, Jerry. I have a living will. It’s very specific, so you should have no worries on that score. I also made you the executor of my will.”

 “Con, that’s crazy. You’re getting me in deeper still.”

 “First thing you can do when I get into assisted living is put my house on the market.” The older man smiled. “You’re entitled to a fee as executor, of course. Almost everything Susan and I had is going to charity, but I did make a small provision in the will for you.”

 When Con Ryan’s lawyer read the will, Jerry was surprised to learn that the Ryan’s had been quite well off, and the money they left him was generous. He called a real estate agent he knew and had her come out and look at the house. She didn’t mince words. “Jerry, I can’t sell this house in this condition. My advice is to get rid of everything. When it’s empty, call me and we’ll get it listed.” She took another walk through the rooms and shook her head. “I know of a service that will clean this place out for you. They’re not cheap, but from what I hear, the Ryan estate can afford it.”

 But Jerry couldn’t do that. He and his wife Stacey had spent some lovely evenings in the Ryan home, sipping cocktails and eating dinner. Often, they celebrated birthdays together too. When Jerry had a problem, he usually consulted Con. They spend nearly every Independence Day at a barbecue the Ryan’s held. They had grown close. He knew how fond Susan and Con were of their home. He remembered Susan saying several times, “We’ve piled sweet memory upon memory in this house. I can tell you a story about almost everything we have.”

 Con would always smile and nod in agreement. “She ain’t kidding, buddy.”

 Jerry had no choice. He’d have to handle the Ryan’s possessions delicately, respectful of their memories. He had opened every drawer and went through everything. Even when he was moving quickly through items of clothing, he did his work respectfully. He gave what he could to the Salvation Army.

 Con and Susan Ryan’s lives were over. Now, the earthly remains of sixty years of memories were going into a dumpster. After he threw his last trash bag on the pile, he stared at it for a while until he heard the sound of a tractor trailer pulling up the drive. It was the guy he’d called earlier to come and haul away the dumpster. A tall, burly man jumped out of his truck and walked over to Jerry. He looked into the dumpster and smiled. “A memory pile, I see. Second one today.”

 “Is that what you call them?” Jerry asked.

 “When old folks die and their stuff gets thrown away? Yeah, sometimes I do.”

 “It’s sad, isn’t it?”

 “Depends how you look at it, I guess. I served two tours in Iraq. Saw the way people lived and died, long before their time.” He pointed to the dumpster. “These people here had nice, full lives. So good, they filled up a 20-yard dumpster. After what I saw over there, ain’t nothing sad about this.”