We are waiting for the claimants to come. You would like to keep the purple umbrella. I would like to keep the orange tree. We’re both hoping no one will claim the blue beat-up dictionary. The dead won’t give anything away. They carefully pick through the big pile of junky objects while we crouch reverently in front of it. A crowd is fighting over the morning star and the evening star, but there’s only one star in the box. It’s stretched thin between them. Fault lines are emerging. People approach from every possible angle. Secretly, we’re hoping for disaster – a chaotic free-for-all so we can make off with as much as our arms can hold. At the door, George Herbert describes an orange tree to the admission clerk. As Herbert glances around, I step in front of it and wave my arms like branches. I feel a little bad because he wants it for God, and I just want it for myself.