Gnashers
By the time he was thirty his teeth were loose, the back molars showing early signs of disintegration. Mum used to say to me: You’re lucky you’ve got my teeth. Around forty they started to drop out, evenly, one side and then the other. Soon after, he gave up smiling. Even with his dentures in—a rare concession—he refused to smile. It wasn’t only vanity. Mum died and he found he couldn’t work anymore. I tried to tell him he was depressed but he wasn’t having it. I sent him books about grief. We lost touch for a while. I was out on the road. I used to do the circuit as a singer, back in the late nineties. Nothing glamorous. Johnny Cash. Roy Orbison. When I say the circuit I mean seaside venues, a few city spots here and there, functions, birthdays, anniversaries, with the occasional wedding if it was an older couple. I still sing, the way most people sing when they’re alone, but these days I prefer to walk. Performing took something out of me that only walking can replenish. Father never came to see me.
A short story by Benjamin Wal.