the baby teeth are a map and a compass. when they come out the real guys file in, erupting the gums, ending sentences with prepositions until they learn where to stand. It's a wisdom trap--the third molars are learned until they know they don't belong. Someday they'll stop trying altogether. Good riddance. And in their place, the sutures sew the site of eruption like tying the loose ends of a volcano and hoping the lava pressure doesn't brew. I came out when I saw I could stand next to you. I trip over uneven stitches. I am not held together.