Grave robbing, grave robbery or tomb raiding is the act of uncovering a tomb or crypt to steal the artifacts (as illicit antiquities) inside or disinterring a corpse to steal the body itself or its personal effects. Someone who engages in this act is a grave robber or tomb raider.
- From the Wikipedia article.

“Let’s dig up some graves, baby.”

I laughed, deeply and heartily, after hearing my little sister purr these words to me via mobile conversation on the Saturday evening before Our Savior allegedly rose from His own grave. I took a lengthy draw from my Marlboro Light, smiled, and purred back at her nearly lasciviously, “Yesssss.”

She arrived at HNL early Tuesday morning for a whirlwind ten-day vacation in The 808. As we have not seen each other in person for over two years (my vacation to visit her in The SoCal last October due to, well, my life happening all around me), we were both, rather obviously, quite excited by her trans-Pacific jaunt. Outfits have been scouted. V.I.P. lists and beaches have been plotted. And, of course, many, many, many photo ops have been planned.

Digging up some graves is one such photo op.

Always a fellow fearless phoenix, and never one to shy away from personal histories, no matter how difficult (she was, after all, the one who suggested I write “The Ex Files” following three rather painful break-ups), I was not surprised that one of our four epic tours of Oahu would include those places we have both lived, those places where our exes lived at the times, and those places on the island that represented any substantial collateral emotional episodes with said exes.

I thought about her proposition for only three seconds before replying, “I’m down with that, baby.”

“Let’s dig.”

Let’s dig them up. Let’s dig all of them up.

Let’s dig up the moonlight and Macalania in Kahala, the words that were said and to which no reply was made.

Let’s dig up the very solid concrete foundation of the Marco Polo, and, again, the call to which no response was made.

Let’s dig up the seeming domestic bliss of Makiki Towers, where one learned to fear all kinds of heights.

Let’s dig up the lonely solitude of Honuakaha, and all of the lonely graves across the street, including the Cooke Family Plot.

Let’s dig up everything we find at The 4330, The 1069, The 500, and even, now, The 1441.

Let’s dig up special North Shore beaches by horse ranches and air strips in the moonlight, and scallops in a special North Shore restaurant, and The Place Where All Souls Leave The Earth, and The Hill Of Escape.

Let’s dig them all up.

And let’s see what we find.

Let’s see what we’ve experienced, what we’ve dealt with, what we’ve buried, and let’s remember how we’ve changed because of them. Let’s, even, revisit a certain cottage, and see just how buried that is, as well.

“Let’s dig up some graves, baby,” she purred again, at our Downtown Starbucks, winking at me over her Guccis, sipping her coffee through a straw, newsprint and notebooks strewn between us.

I returned her wink and purred again, “Yesssss.”

“And are the camera batteries fully charged?”