orthopedy

My teeth are afloat on a sea of pink. Drifting into tight clusters of throbbing discomfort. You are mistaken in the image of my smile that comes to mind based on that description. If you are trying. The visual record of the drift is miniscule, closely knit as my teeth are. But they are like Musketeers, the little pearls, All for One and One for All.

The current discomfort began on the sparkling shores of a cerulean swimming pool. It was either cerulean or suburban, I can't remember which. But it was a shore, because my older brothers were creating monstrous waves that towered and curled over the screaming egg of my four-year-old body. My sharp little milk teeth were a shining crescent of my delight. So they were fully exposed when I slipped and fell. Shrieking the way I was, you'd think I wouldn't have even been able to hear the crack of my teeth hitting the flagstones. You'd be wrong. The crack embedded itself in my brain. An overtight violin string. The magnifying effect of all the ripping, snapping, and bursting of semi-rigid flesh turning into bloody mush.