Space

Little tooth was hanging on.
One hard knock—and it was gone.
We had thought we had all week.
Now a space inside his cheek.

Blood upon a little sleeve.
Things don’t ask before they leave.
Yet he knew, at only nine:
one less tooth, still doing fine.

I have felt things loosen too.
Felt them move, the way we do.
I had pictured how they’d go:
gently, neatly, nice and slow.

Once, a bell would tell me when
to close the book, begin again.
Now no bell and no one knows
quite which way the growing goes.

Some things leave before we’re ready.
I watch him. He is standing steady.
He has lost some teeth before,
so he knows what that space is for.