You have to understand the dress.
And the color.
And the twenty years I spent being quiet.
My name is Joan Whitaker. I’m fifty-nine years old.
I’m a pediatric dental hygienist in Columbus, Ohio. I’ve worked at the same practice for twenty-six years. I clean the teeth of terrified seven-year-olds and tell them the suction tool is a tiny elephant trunk. I’m good at it.
I have one son.
His name is Grant.
Grant has always been the calm one.
Even as a baby. He didn’t cry much. He watched. When other toddlers threw tantrums in the grocery store, Grant sat in the cart and studied the cereal boxes. When other kids at school fought on the playground, Grant walked away. He’d come home and tell me about it at the kitchen table, very matter-of-fact.
Tyler pushed Marcus. Marcus pushed Tyler. I went to the swings.
