Eleanor lounged on the patio, a perfect mix of sun and breeze keeping her cool but cozy.
Her thoughts warmed in the sun, drizzling thick and slow like honey behind her closed lids. She was lulled into memories of elementary school, early morning soccer games, and baby teeth.
A lifetime of asthma meant she typically served as the goalie. She was surprisingly decent in the role when she wasn’t busy making crowns from the tiny, white-budded weeds littering the neglected field.
One crisp morning, Eleanor’s second-grade soccer team had a game against a rival elementary school.
The opposing team was notoriously competitive — taller, stronger, meaner. Rumor had it they licked their palms before the obligatory post-game handshakes.
One of the most aggressive players, Heather, went to Eleanor’s Sunday school and was always picking arguments with the teacher. She was also approximately a foot taller than Eleanor.
As Heather barreled toward the goal, Eleanor raised her hands and tried to stand her ground. She flinched preemptively at the thought of the future: the ball coming straight at her face.
Then Heather’s foot reared back, and it was.
There was no time for Eleanor to react as the ball rocketed toward her face. It struck like lightning, causing a temporary power outage in her brain.
When the emergency lights flickered on, several players towered over her, faces concerned. What were they doing way up there? She heard her coach yelling, and it seemed to be getting closer.
“In good news,” she thought woozily, “I blocked the shot.”
Eleanor had done her job and she was tired. Whatever else was happening was someone else’s problem. The sun on her skin and the dewy grass held her suspended in time — weightless, cool, and cozy.
She closed her eyes again but soon felt the dizzying lurch of being picked up. She moaned in protest before quickly admitting defeat. A few nauseating movements later, she was plopped on the ground again. The earth spun around her.
She reluctantly regained consciousness to discover she was now sprawled on a quilt on the sidelines, head pounding.
Her mom sat beside her in a folding chair, holding an ice pack and looking relieved but unsurprised. She was, after all, a nurse and mother to three accident-prone daughters. This wasn’t even Eleanor’s first concussion.
And it wouldn’t be her last.
Feeling suddenly nauseous, Eleanor rolled over. She was surprised when what she spit out was two of her baby teeth. Two others had been knocked so loose that they followed suit later that evening.
It was a small price, at least in young Eleanor’s opinion. She was focused on the bright side: The Tooth Fairy owed her big time.
Four baby teeth down in one day. Surely there’s an analogy for growing up too quickly there. It’s no wonder Eleanor still dreams about grinding all her teeth out.
And they delivered the next morning.
An entire dollar, a pack of Hubba Bubba Bubbletape gum, and a ghost Beanie Baby (“Sheets” for the real fans).
A meager consolation for a hit to the face? Maybe to some, but to Eleanor it was a slice of well-earned magic.
She sometimes wonders about Heather. Surely, she’s grown as a person— no longer spitting on palms or knocking out teeth.
Of course, Eleanor’s grown, too. Life continues to throw its best shots at her, occasionally hitting hard enough to rattle her teeth. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t bite back. Sometimes she just has to take a break for a bit first.
She still tries to make room for the small magic — bubblegum under pillows, flower crowns, and slow mornings spent cool but cozy.