On one of my trips through my mother’s home town in Upper Michigan, I stopped by my Aunt Eleanore’s house. She was lying on the couch propped up by pillows, eating candies and enjoying the hell out of just having had surgery. After her delighted and horrified narration of symptoms, emergency rushing, and waking up, she directed me to Exhibit A on the mantelpiece: a plastic bottle with four liver-colored wedges. Her gallstones. I was impressed. They looked mystical, like some kind of alien dice for a game of chance involving the fate of empires. I spent the rest of the day bathing in the light of her celebrity. She died several years ago. I’ve been meaning to ask my cousin what happened to them.