The boy standing in front of my desk at school is in the third grade. Nine years old. Smaller than the other boys his age; his friends call him “anchovy”. He’s a good kid: listens during class and gets a kick out of using English.
Today, like most days, he’s all smiles.
But it isn’t just his good nature that has him grinning. Today he’s showing off. There’s a gap right in the middle of his mouth; a hint of white pushing through the cradle of an old baby tooth.
Only in childhood (and maybe among some professional fighters) is a missing tooth cause for jubilation, a badge of honor. My little friend wears it well. He is all semi-toothy grin and exuberance; obviously elated at this rite of passage and (perhaps?) the prospect of having less territory to cover toothbrush in hand at the start and end of his day.
He couldn’t be excited about a visit from the Tooth Fairy.
Her wings don’t carry her quite so far as Korea. Over here there is a custom in which children take their lost teeth and pitch them with all their might onto the roof of their home or a neighborhood building.
There is something about the idea of these milk teeth in gutters or on rooftops, orphaned, cut-off from the current of other childhood mementos – school pictures, a stuffed animal, a blanket – that makes me sad.
A tangible reminder of innocence and youth surrendered to the unreliable services of memory.
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