Teeth

My teeth occupy significant space in my portfolio of anxieties. I regularly have dreams that my teeth are crumbling out of my mouth — I take a bite of an apple and I feel them shatter into pieces, nothing but jagged nubs left behind. I have so little confidence in my teeth that I’m easily convinced that I’ve lost at least part of a tooth anytime I eat banana chips. I once watched my Grandpa Ozzie pretend to eat a pretend Hersheys bar and his tooth fell out. He was a joker so us grandkids thought he was joking us. But it was his real tooth. Now that you mention it, I’m fairly certain I’ve witnessed my Grandma Ruth losing a tooth too — all you can do is laugh, I guess.

But in real life I still can’t even bother to floss once a week. Once a month is more realistic. Unsurprisingly these bad habits have not improved over the course of quarantine times. If I ever find myself with a toothache, I will suddenly develop a near-religious mouthwash ritual, hoping to banish any cavities and clammy visions of root canals. In the covid era, I have to just swish and hope for the best.

Misplaced

Do you ever stay up at night wondering about something you’ve suddenly remembered that you’ve misplaced?

A shirt you used to wear all the time, a book you thought you would be eager to read, a photograph from middle school. When was the last time you saw it?

And what about misplaced people, the ones that you meant to keep up, or maybe tried to keep up with, but the poles of existence pushed you out into the existential abyss, untethered to the prior self’s gravitational force.

The ghosts of misplaced moments, hollow fractured thoughts, and a warped record of internal dialogue, all captive in the dark spot hovering above your bed.

Where do you put your midnight memories except in some misplaced corner of your mind’s many corridors in hopes that you can drift away into uneasy nothingness until the nighttime hours give way to light.