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We’d always keep the loose ones hidden from her. The first she’d hear of one, she’d get out a spoon and command us to open wide, get the edge of the spoon under the loose tooth and try to pry it out. She was impatient, wanted it out immediately. Long before those baby teeth wanted to leave our bodies. So we hid our wobbly canines. Secretly pushing around the pearls in our small silent mouths. Working on them for days, maybe weeks, if necessary. Or threatening to rat each other out to her, knowing she’d have that tooth out and under the pillow in less than two minutes. Only she wasn’t the pillow type. It was a glass of water next to our bed. A special glass only for teeth, small and hourglass shaped. Heavy empty and heavier with it’s special prize inside. A tiny white nugget of our childhood dropped into cold water. In the morning, a glistening fifty cent piece in its place. She told us all the tricks she’d tried. Tied to a doorknob, a board. We grimaced, grumbled. Clamped our hands over our mouths. Exchanged glances of horror as she headed for the kitchen, heard the silverware drawer slide open. “Just let me look,” she’d say. I won’t touch it…”
