curiosity

I don't remember when I first loosened the lid atop the tempered Tupperware container, but I will never forget the murky bath of bobbing teeth.

Before the besiege of seat belt laws, I would lie on my back, legs dangling over the seat of the station wagon, eyes connecting the dots of torn ceiling fabric, while my mind engrossed with the rows of pearly whites in the plastic tub, wondering-
were they real
could they taste

did they stink
could I fit them into my mouth?

Escaping the wagon, I, a pigtailed girl of five, shared in the rituals of our family gatherings: smooches, ear tugs, bottom pats as the kids were shooed outside, allowing adults to catch up over cocktails.

Tossing ants into entangled spider's webs, turning mud into quicksand, bandaging wounded fort prisoners, I would often forget the curious pool of teeth awaiting upstairs. But by evening when I could stand it no longer, I would sneak into my grandmother's bathroom and stare at the white enameled soldiers standing in formation.
Curiosity prevailed and my right hand forced a finger through the frothy water, creating waves, drowning the militia men. I'd raise the curio from the crypt to my nose. The odor redolent of decrepit elderly tickled my gag reflex; but I could stand it. My cousins exaggerated dry heaves and puking sounds before collapsing to the floor. Teasing me, they would race outdoors staying until bedtime, uninterested in my scientific wonder.

That summer of 1976, I learned many things-

the teeth were false

they had no taste

the stank

and they did not fit into my mouth.