Mom used to warn me that too much of anything
—piety, vegetables, even reading—can be harmful.
But growing up, I brushed my teeth irregularly
at best. In the chaotic mornings, no one had time
to make sure I undertook this ritual that promised
a healthy mouth into old age. And at night,
I was too tired, too eager to read a story,
too busy with fireflies and stuffed animals.
Now that I fight the same fight with my son,
I don’t just wash twice a day, but after every
meal, snack, and coffee. I keep a toothbrush
in my pocket and paste scattered around the
house, in my backpack and glove-compartment.
I tell my son the same joke—let’s get
your chomps so clean you can eat off of them—
hoping a bit of humor will make a dental-hygiene
addict of him. And always I slink away to
my sink, looking at my tired eyes in the mirror
as my tongue foams with mint, yet again beating back
the stale taste of all that we dread as we grow old.
On my last visit, the dentist made no mention of
my pearly whites or perfect gums, but solemnly
noted that my teeth are chipped from grinding
them in my sleep, that at this rate, I will
eventually need dental implants. Bruxism, he said,
is caused by stress or sleep disorders. He sold me
a custom-fitted mouth guard that I tried once and
threw away; so I have become an avid practitioner
of jaw relaxation and deep breathing, a jobless
student of damage—the many ridges and fractures,
the lines of worry I have drawn on myself like
van Goh with his terrible need, his wild stars.
