MargenMy daughter keeps the teeth she loses in a little tin box. A tender habit, I thought, one of those you remember fondly once the children are grown.
Yesterday, while she slept, I opened the box to count them. Twelve small teeth, blindingly white, lined up like seeds.
She has only lost four. I know because I put the coins under her pillow myself, one by one, counting the nights.
In the morning I asked her, with all the calm I could fake, whose the other eight were. She put down her spoon, looked at me and smiled with her whole mouth.
It was complete. Not one missing. Thirty-two perfect teeth, and deep in her eyes the quiet certainty of someone who still has plenty of room in the box.