It's about time for this old toothbrush to be replaced. The bristles no longer line up in neat erect rows. They fall outward along the edges, curling and bent like ice-laden tree branches. The neck of the brush, once clear, has a dull white glaze of old toothpaste and spit.
The body still youthful, a pink arced torso, the center transparent except for seven pink ribs across the area where my thumb rests when I brush my teeth. These ribs still my hand, allow me to guide her. Further down the brush is as new, the unused handle, a bridge, a rise on the horizon of the day.
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