Ten teeth, going on eleven. Half of your primary teeth are in, while half of your nap time is gone, your crib sheets soaked and cold with tears. Your mom holds you in your dark curtained room, smiling, not wanting to pawn you off into your dad's arms.
Your mom cries when she can't stop your crying, when she can't ease your pain. The medicine helped, but not really. Now you have cried so long that it is time to get up, nap time gone. Your dad spins the turnkey on a music box. He blows bubbles. He hands you a picture of when he was three years old. "Baby?" you ask. "Baby," your dad says. You hand back the picture.
In the living room, your dad gets you crayons. "I don't know if those are toxic," your mom says. She takes those crayons away and gives you Crayolas. "Is the sprinkler off?" "Yes," your dad says. "Can you turn off the TV then? It makes this room hot. Thanks for the coffee." You don't use the Crayolas. You look for your mom in the sewing room where she gulps her Sumatra.
