His father's: a photo of himself as a small child in a white smock sitting astride a tall black ostrich, reins in hand, one small foot dangling.
His mother's: a snub-footed footstool, rounded in beige plush, a needlepoint bouquet in muted colors centered for resting feet.
Her mother's: a large tarnished silver brooch, its circled edge framing a standing waterbird with one wing raised, a smaller bird crouching beneath.
My mother's: a doll-sized china teapot, teacup and saucer, sky blue with a flowing gray and white smiling oriental dragon embossed on each piece, sent to her as a teenager by a Japanese penpal.
Her father's: a memory of waltzing around the living room with him to Lawrence Welk, my small feet pressed against the tops of his shoes.
Her mother's: a small round cut-glass bowl filled with stone-bashed water-smoothed sherbet-ice-colored sea glass, gentle gems found winking in the sand along her beachfront.
Anders': a child's flared-lip silver mug engraved with his name, embellished with the little flying figure of Nils Holgersson on his goose and a short matching spoon with a flock of flying geese on the handle.
Mine: a cherry-wood framed watercolor painting of my cat Tish, curled and sleeping, dated the year I turned 18.