Working stiffs

Yankings, borings-out, fillings in, pressure realignments, implantations: just some of the ways we attend to the two one-on-top-of-each-other circles of standing stones, our mouth microliths, our teeth. Friends have been reporting on their experiences and expenses. Our mouths are resembling archaeological sites.

At the other end of the time line, my grandson is cutting his first teeth and his crankiness is explained away by the birthing of knives in his mouth. A friend's daughter is losing those first biters, exposing broad gaps to be filled with those same snippers, tearers and grinders that we oldsters now wish we had been more careful of.

Once upon a time, the loss of teeth meant death. Cooking was a major step in obviating our oral cutlery, and since then, we've developed replacements that do well enough, but nothing as dynamic as our teeth of pulp and enamel melded together in single specialized units.  I am struck by how much they tell about our derelictions, accidents, habits. Forensics use these most permanent artifacts to identify us, but even as they occupy my mouth, I can feel with my tongue, see in the mirror, in the gaps and caps, a life's narrative.

You teeth work steadily, sacrificing yourselves crystal by apatite crystal, ring by ring, to subdue the crisp or chewy structures of the edible universe into a puree, a slurry, at least a bolus which the rest of me can get to work on. Off duty, yours is the flash that makes my smile winning. In emergencies, you can draw blood, or threaten to, in my defense (Grr!) You're also great help in loosening obdurate knots. You even comfort my compulsiveness by letting me polish you against each other when distracted. (Bad habit.)

You've made me suffer, it's true, but I have to accept ultimate blame. An army of restorers is ready to remedy my negligence, but task grows harder since there's less to work on. I may hate but don't resent the twinges and stabs that remind me of your living presence.

You remain adamant but I have tender thoughts of you, especially as your cores are increasingly exposed. My many years, my many meals have worn or broken you. Like soldiers serving an dynasty in decline, you make the best of what is left. My other hard parts are covered and cushioned, but your hardness is unsheathed and exposed--matching that of much of the world. Your bravado is somewhat ridiculous but appreciated nonetheless. So, with pickings and scrubbings,  flossings and massagings, I treat you like athletes fresh off the field, but soon to go back out.

I'm waxing poetic, but like most workmen, you have no use for high-flown language when there are tasks to be done.  Carry on.