I must have been five when my Granddad drove to town and returned with his first set of dentures. Mom and Grandma had him grin several times, oohing and aahing over what they obviously saw as an improvement in his features.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I got a brand new set of choppers,” Granddad said. “Wanna see?”
“Sure!” I said as I climbed onto his lap. He smiled, showing two rows of brightly shining teeth, straight and white. They looked like several miniature sets of Grandma’s white, metal canisters, that sort of bulged out at the center.
I frowned “Where is your old teeth?”
“Gone!” Grandad said. “Don’t you like these?”
I placed a hand on each of his long arms and leaned in to get a closer look. Grandad grinned wider. I leaned back and shook my head.
“I like your old teeth!” I said. “Where is your old teeth?”
“Why don’t you like these?” Grandma asked.
“They’re not Granddad!” I stated the obvious.
Grandad gaffawed lowdly, hugging me in his familiar bear grip. I settled into his arms, still suspicious, but thinking maybe he would be all right. Just maybe those white tiles in his mouth wouldn’t hurt him.
As I look back on my childhood, I realize that I rarely liked any changes my Grandparents went through. They were a stabilizing influence in my life. The ones you love always die too soon.
The ones you don’t like – seems like some of them tend to stick around. Could be a relative who has been really hard on you. Maybe his soul is thinking, “If I just give him a little more time, he’ll have an epiphany and change his ways.”
Or maybe his soul is thinking, “If I just give him a little more time, she’ll have an epiphany and change her ways.”
Damn! I hate those kinds of lessons.
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