I think about teeth sometimes. I have not lost a tooth in many years, I am beyond the age when it is normal and celebrated. But I remember it.

I remember the feeling, the fearful excitement when it first moves, the days or weeks in which it gets looser, able to be spun fully around, until it holds on by barely a thread. I remember the wet, ripping sound of the tooth being pulled out of the soft gum, the sweet and bloody release of it finally being out. How as it rests on your tongue, it feels so large, yet outside of your mouth, the tooth is tiny.

I remember the taste, blood in copious amounts, if you're lucky. Blood that doesn't quite taste like any other blood in the body. I remember the taste of the tooth, cold, smooth calcium. It served you well, but now it is gone.

I remember the feeling of the gum, once protected by a hard cover, now exposed to air and saliva for the first time in years. It is smooth, and sensitive, and your tongue recoils when it is touched. But you touch it anyway.

I remember where I wanted to loose my teeth. At school, in class or outside, only so they would put it in a small, brown paper bag. The bags were only for teeth. Nothing else was permitted.

I remember the hard tips of the new teeth, pressing through the sensitive gum. I remember how sharp they were, slicing through my flesh to take their place. How they would be worn down in time to soft hills that feel smooth and squared.

I remember teeth, and that is what I remember.