The Only Girl in the Family
You leave me a jar of teeth in your will.
It holds the baby teeth of my father and his son, and your father and you.
(But not me.)
It used to sit on the mantle of your fireplace.
Now it sits in my lap. I puzzle over what to do with it.
It’s at least provided some laughter in this tense moment—Poppa and his weird teeth jar.
(You always were the family clown)
It holds the baby teeth of my father and his son, and your father and you.
(But not me.)
It used to sit on the mantle of your fireplace.
Now it sits in my lap. I puzzle over what to do with it.
It’s at least provided some laughter in this tense moment—Poppa and his weird teeth jar.
(You always were the family clown)
I bring it home because it’s the last thing I have of you.
I don’t have a mantle, so it goes on my bedside table, under the framed postcards you sent me
That one summer you spent in India.
It came along with a bag of loose cinnamon
Which I promptly spilled all over my kitchen floor,
At which your son’s son (my cousin) laughed at me
Until he was rolling in cinnamon.
I don’t have a mantle, so it goes on my bedside table, under the framed postcards you sent me
That one summer you spent in India.
It came along with a bag of loose cinnamon
Which I promptly spilled all over my kitchen floor,
At which your son’s son (my cousin) laughed at me
Until he was rolling in cinnamon.
He got your fancy porcelain cups. I got a jar of teeth, his included.
I dream of your house, the one you lived in when you were still married, before you sold it to travel the world.
I dream of being a child again, seated in your lap, rocking in the chair you rescued after your neighbors ditched it to the curb.
You hold me close and whisper the names of constellations in my ear,
Guide my finger to trace the stars.
I don’t remember much about you, but I remember the porch, the chair, the sensation of being lulled to sleep.
I dream of your house, the one you lived in when you were still married, before you sold it to travel the world.
I dream of being a child again, seated in your lap, rocking in the chair you rescued after your neighbors ditched it to the curb.
You hold me close and whisper the names of constellations in my ear,
Guide my finger to trace the stars.
I don’t remember much about you, but I remember the porch, the chair, the sensation of being lulled to sleep.
Your skin is the color of overripe kumquats at the funeral.
Formaldehyde is orange like kumquats and I wonder if that’s why you look like that, like an alien from Star Trek (which is really just a man covered in orange pain running around in a desert) or maybe an oompa loompa or a badly painted caricature like you’re not a person and you never were.
Formaldehyde is orange like kumquats and I wonder if that’s why you look like that, like an alien from Star Trek (which is really just a man covered in orange pain running around in a desert) or maybe an oompa loompa or a badly painted caricature like you’re not a person and you never were.
I stand with your son (my dad) and your son’s son (my cousin) and I wonder how I fit in to all this.
You were a collector of oddities, the obituary reads.
Was I just another one of them?
Like the stuffed pigeon you found at a yard sale in England, or your collection of international spoons.
Something that piques your interest enough to buy,
But eventually ends up collecting dust in the corner.
Was I just another one of them?
Like the stuffed pigeon you found at a yard sale in England, or your collection of international spoons.
Something that piques your interest enough to buy,
But eventually ends up collecting dust in the corner.
My father (your son) tells me about the trips you would take, when he was a child.
How neither of you particularly liked fishing, but how you did it anyway because that was what father and son were supposed to do. (I would kill to be on that lake with you)
You tried with my cousin, once, when he was twelve (one year younger than me)
The trip lasted less than an hour and you returned, frustrated and empty-handed and frayed.
You didn’t try it with me. (I am not your son’s son.)
The trip lasted less than an hour and you returned, frustrated and empty-handed and frayed.
You didn’t try it with me. (I am not your son’s son.)
At night I pace the house. (not your house)
It doesn’t have a porch like yours did, no place to look at the stars (I wouldn’t see them anyway. Too polluted.)
I hold my breath and listen to the sound of cars passing by and cradle the jar of teeth in my hands
Like you in the rocking chair and try not to think too hard about what it means (I am not your son’s son. My teeth are not in your jar.)
It doesn’t have a porch like yours did, no place to look at the stars (I wouldn’t see them anyway. Too polluted.)
I hold my breath and listen to the sound of cars passing by and cradle the jar of teeth in my hands
Like you in the rocking chair and try not to think too hard about what it means (I am not your son’s son. My teeth are not in your jar.)
I know, to some degree, you must have loved me.
Those nights on the porch, searching the silver stars for meteors must have meant something to you too, right?
The Russian dolls you gifted my parents at my birth still sit on my bedside table, next to the jar of teeth.
Those nights on the porch, searching the silver stars for meteors must have meant something to you too, right?
The Russian dolls you gifted my parents at my birth still sit on my bedside table, next to the jar of teeth.
About the Author
Sofia Restom Gaskill is a sophomore at Florida Southern College, currently pursuing a double major in English and Theatre Arts. Her proudest achievement is folding 1,000 paper cranes, which she now has no idea what to do with. Sofia has been writing and engaging with other writers for over a decade, but has yet to be published.