Dear Alf, Thanks for Everything
Hey there, Alf.
It's me -- your head.
You're probably feeling a little nervous right now, as the end approaches. You're probably wondering what lies ahead for you in the great beyond. I wish I could tell you, but the truth is, I don't really know myself. All I can say is, best of luck to you, and I'm so sorry that it has to end this way.
The dentists and specialists refer to you as Number Eight. "We need to get an x-ray on Number Eight," they say. None of them know why you are dying from the inside out. It is a senseless tragedy with unknown roots -- was it the braces when I was fifteen? The smack of the handlebars when I was ten? No one knows, but the end result is the same.
I want you to know that you are so much more to me than a number, Alf. And I'm sorry I named you Alf, by the way. What happened was that I was struggling to put my grief into words for a slightly unsympathetic husband. I was trying to express your importance and why it was so sad to lose you after all of these years. "It was a great tooth! My favorite! It even had a name!" I cried. This was, of course, a lie, but there was no going back at that point, so I used the first name that popped into my head. You deserve better than that, Alf. You deserve better than to be named after a hairy cat-eating puppet from another planet. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would have named you something nice, like Marian or Alexander.
But there's no going back now. There is only forward, inevitably forward, to 9:45 a.m. Wednesday at the specialist's office across from the old-style shopping mall. I am bringing my mp3 player. I intend to see you out in style. I'm told that sound travels best through solids. If that is the case, I hope it is some consolation to you that when your existence winks out, you will be resonating to the tune of none less than Lori McKenna's* "What's One More Time." It is my hope that the quiet desperation of her mourning voice will give you comfort as you pass out of this world and into the next.
Or, if it suits you better, perhaps the dental assistant will oblige us in a reading of William Cullen Bryant's "Thanatopsis." I really don't know whether that poem was actually intended for teeth, but it applies just the same, do you agree?
Anyway, the point I was getting at is, you are not Number Eight. You are Number One, an honor you share with your twin, my other front tooth. You are the teeth I favor above all others. You are one of the two I most wished to keep. You are one of the rightful leaders of the tooth posse, and you will not be forgotten.
Admittedly, my motivation was more about vanity than anything else. I wanted to keep you, not because I loved you, but because other people enjoyed your presence much more than they would have enjoyed a gaping hole. It seems shallow now that the end is near, but the truth is, I didn't want to resemble a crack whore if it could possibly be helped.
But my desire to keep you is more than vanity, Alf, you have to believe that. You are part of me. You have been there through some very special times. You gleamed at my wedding, when my new husband said something wildly inappropriate and I threw my head back in a laugh, and light bounced off of you and you beamed it back at the world, inviting everything to share in the happiness that was mine. You hid behind my trembling lips when tears of grief coursed down my face when I burst into senseless hormonal crying over my dessert that one time at Panera. The truth is, I was being kind of silly and dramatic, but you respectfully hid yourself until it was over, a show of unity on your part that I greatly appreciate.
I have been smiling tragically into the mirror ever since I found out the end was near. We will be bleaching and keeping the front of you and filling in the rest. I'm sure you're not very impressed by that. That's like hearing your head is going to be stuffed and mounted in someone's smoking room. By which I mean it's better than nothing, but still a total consolation prize.
I will miss you, Alf. You're a little gray now; you sort of make me look like a Russian gymnast. You're not quite what you used to be. But you're still very special to me.
Rest in peace.
---------------
*Lori McKenna also wrote and sang the original version of "Fireflies," which ended up on Faith Hill's latest album as the (much crappier) title song. But Faith Hill is way more famous than Lori McKenna, even though Faith Hill didn't even write the song, much less sing it properly, and even though Lori McKenna writes wonderful songs and sings her little heart out, which just proves there is no justice in this world. Two words, Faithie: Kitchen Tapes. Lori made that album in her KITCHEN, and she STILL sounds better than you do, and despite this achievement Amazon doesn't even give the poor woman a picture of her CD cover. I repeat: no justice.
It's me -- your head.
You're probably feeling a little nervous right now, as the end approaches. You're probably wondering what lies ahead for you in the great beyond. I wish I could tell you, but the truth is, I don't really know myself. All I can say is, best of luck to you, and I'm so sorry that it has to end this way.
The dentists and specialists refer to you as Number Eight. "We need to get an x-ray on Number Eight," they say. None of them know why you are dying from the inside out. It is a senseless tragedy with unknown roots -- was it the braces when I was fifteen? The smack of the handlebars when I was ten? No one knows, but the end result is the same.
I want you to know that you are so much more to me than a number, Alf. And I'm sorry I named you Alf, by the way. What happened was that I was struggling to put my grief into words for a slightly unsympathetic husband. I was trying to express your importance and why it was so sad to lose you after all of these years. "It was a great tooth! My favorite! It even had a name!" I cried. This was, of course, a lie, but there was no going back at that point, so I used the first name that popped into my head. You deserve better than that, Alf. You deserve better than to be named after a hairy cat-eating puppet from another planet. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would have named you something nice, like Marian or Alexander.
But there's no going back now. There is only forward, inevitably forward, to 9:45 a.m. Wednesday at the specialist's office across from the old-style shopping mall. I am bringing my mp3 player. I intend to see you out in style. I'm told that sound travels best through solids. If that is the case, I hope it is some consolation to you that when your existence winks out, you will be resonating to the tune of none less than Lori McKenna's* "What's One More Time." It is my hope that the quiet desperation of her mourning voice will give you comfort as you pass out of this world and into the next.
Or, if it suits you better, perhaps the dental assistant will oblige us in a reading of William Cullen Bryant's "Thanatopsis." I really don't know whether that poem was actually intended for teeth, but it applies just the same, do you agree?
Anyway, the point I was getting at is, you are not Number Eight. You are Number One, an honor you share with your twin, my other front tooth. You are the teeth I favor above all others. You are one of the two I most wished to keep. You are one of the rightful leaders of the tooth posse, and you will not be forgotten.
Admittedly, my motivation was more about vanity than anything else. I wanted to keep you, not because I loved you, but because other people enjoyed your presence much more than they would have enjoyed a gaping hole. It seems shallow now that the end is near, but the truth is, I didn't want to resemble a crack whore if it could possibly be helped.
But my desire to keep you is more than vanity, Alf, you have to believe that. You are part of me. You have been there through some very special times. You gleamed at my wedding, when my new husband said something wildly inappropriate and I threw my head back in a laugh, and light bounced off of you and you beamed it back at the world, inviting everything to share in the happiness that was mine. You hid behind my trembling lips when tears of grief coursed down my face when I burst into senseless hormonal crying over my dessert that one time at Panera. The truth is, I was being kind of silly and dramatic, but you respectfully hid yourself until it was over, a show of unity on your part that I greatly appreciate.
I have been smiling tragically into the mirror ever since I found out the end was near. We will be bleaching and keeping the front of you and filling in the rest. I'm sure you're not very impressed by that. That's like hearing your head is going to be stuffed and mounted in someone's smoking room. By which I mean it's better than nothing, but still a total consolation prize.
I will miss you, Alf. You're a little gray now; you sort of make me look like a Russian gymnast. You're not quite what you used to be. But you're still very special to me.
Rest in peace.
---------------
*Lori McKenna also wrote and sang the original version of "Fireflies," which ended up on Faith Hill's latest album as the (much crappier) title song. But Faith Hill is way more famous than Lori McKenna, even though Faith Hill didn't even write the song, much less sing it properly, and even though Lori McKenna writes wonderful songs and sings her little heart out, which just proves there is no justice in this world. Two words, Faithie: Kitchen Tapes. Lori made that album in her KITCHEN, and she STILL sounds better than you do, and despite this achievement Amazon doesn't even give the poor woman a picture of her CD cover. I repeat: no justice.
posted by Schnozz at 11:16 AM
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