Geography is elastic but morning has reversed or doubled itself and it is not yet late but soon it will be if I am not diligent diligence being the rudder the bow the shoe's heel and sometimes it is a memory etched on a sidewalk summer's sly edge floating from my eaves as starlings shoot out.
It is fall here on the far edge of the west. The last pink roses struggle up the stone wall and dahlias nod their huge obscene heads on skinny necks. I’m eating the last of the peaches and tomatoes as I watch for my son to come home from his orchards to bring a new crop of apples that will winter in my pantry. It’s 50° in the mornings and I wore my sweater for the first time yesterday. Bah. I’m never ready for summer to end.
I picked up my dentures last Wednesday. I wondered in my car on the way there if they would come in a pink or blue plastic box or much worse a flesh colored box ew. Do you remember the flesh colored Crayola™? Decidedly creepy. In fact the dentures came in a goddamn sandwich baggie floating in an embryonic inside baggie in some kind of viscous liquid. Uppers and bottomers with my name printed in tiny black letters on each one.
I have no chart on the proper way of seduction by water the low drone of an airplane fur or deep beds. I'm afraid of dogs running at me but not an ant parade or chemistry's miracle. It's unclear to me but I have to admit I am small and helpless with marionberry jam a tea set's small flat knife a rose patterned saucer.
I sat back in my car in the parking lot of the denture place holding the bag of teeth like a newborn thing strangely wriggly and pink too awkward for my tiny summer purse too alive for my dress pocket too intimate to be exposed on my car seat as I drove down the interstate back to my island back to privacy and comfort. Thirty-two entire teeth exposed. I shoved them in my glove box and sat there shaking. I craved one of those brown waxy on the inside paper bags that used to be available in public restrooms so women could dispose of their sanitary products. I have written before about teeth and shame my shame and at its core it was always about being exposed. Whether basic bodily functions like menstruation or eating. My horrible mother always looking inside there ticking away my failures real or imagined in her book. The secrets we hold in our mouths and bodies the small fluttery hearts we carry or try to hide.
I have my extraction done at 8 AM on October 7. If I'm lucky I'll disconnect and remain diligent and survive these next three weeks floating between waking states of excitement and terror.
You don't have to know me one hot second to know I am not fond of roses or rats or how they are depicted at the end holding the earth's skirt in their teeth.
This woman is happy but will she ever smile again?
Yes, my darling, you will smile again and it will be glory, glory!
I, too, carry that fear of anyone seeing inside my body, but for me especially the parts that have to be scanned by a machine or drawn via a needle in order to discern. God, I hate that. Leave me alone, please. Don't even talk about it.
I love you truly, my sourdough sister, my wise wordsmith woman. Knowing you are there is me being thankful.
You render this so fully, the intimacy of it, the hope and the things you cannot forget. You will smile again and I hope you show us a picture. I admire your bravery so much. This isn’t an easy step to take, especially with all the emotional history attached. But you’re doing it, dear woman, and I love you so.