Proof of Growing

I hold the toy in my palm

and feel the teeth marks pressed in,

small indentations where calm

baby teeth found a place to begin

their wear on the rubber.

Time made visible—

the way something soft

becomes evidence, divisible

proof that what I lost

is someone who used to be smaller.

These marks are the record

of a phase that's done,

of a mouth I'll never reword

or return to, of someone

who needed this more than they need it now.

I hold the small proof,

the indentation, the truth

that growing up

is leaving things behind.

I put it in the box.

I seal the flaps.

I don't let myself unlock

my memory of what

those teeth marks meant.