Baby Teeth

The house where you grew up
Had a tire swing in the back
And a tree
That had every kind of fruit
Your older brother would pick you a peach
That tasted like gold on your tongue
And the softness of its fur
Spread a rash over your cheeks
When you rubbed your face into it
Like you did the belly of your cat
As he bathed in the sunbeam
The same way you bathed
In brown stream down the street
You haven’t been outside in years
And your feet no longer track dirt
Into the house
But the dirt and the worms and the polluted streams and the rocks on their shores and the road that kicks up dirt with every step and the orange cat that follows behind you with a bell on his collar and the summer heat and the spring rain that taps on your window
Beg you to come outside and play once again
All the seashells you’ve collected over the years
Have broken
Like a chipped tooth
On a coffee table
And crumbled into the dust
That settles in the jewelry box
Your Mom gave you
The old, wooden thing
Contains your girlhood
With its mismatched earrings
A baby tooth
A picture of your family
Where everyone is smiling
The bookmark you got
When you were ten
And never used
Because you liked it so much
The bracelet your best friend made for you
Before she moved away
And you never saw her again
You dip a finger into the dust
Before bringing it
To your mouth
And you taste the ocean once more

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By Sarah Heart

An international relations student living in Texas with three small children in the form of cats. She has recently taken up drinking coffee despite hating the taste.