Teeth Three Inches From NowDonald Illich
â€œMust not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?â€ Plato, Dialogues, Phaedo Iâ€™m a toddler. I wait for teeth to come in. It seems like forever. I want to accidentally bite momâ€™s breasts. Chewing food is much better than sucking stewed peas down. Three inches from now, as measured by lifeâ€™s ruler, Iâ€™ll leap onto the yardstick of failure. The bursting of gums for little nubs thatâ€™ll soon fall out at six. Let them be permanent. Stop time from erupting like a volcano. Donâ€™t wish to meet the â€œTooth Fairy.â€ A quarterâ€™s not enough to hush me. Iâ€™ll nip at your fingers when you try to put me to sleep. The womb. Thatâ€™s where it all went wrong, when I departed that anteroom for pain and teething. A plastic ring, drops of alcohol in my bottle, a cramped crib, will not quiet me for long. Soon enough Iâ€™ll walk around with a stupefied look on my face. Not because everythingâ€™s beautiful. Iâ€™m stunned by breathing. It treacherously slows down when dad holds me, says, Iâ€™m here, donâ€™t be scared, Iâ€™ll always be around for you. Donâ€™t you know all this is a horror, that this is my nightmare?
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