For a long while, while the Mantle of Grace yet wrapt my shoulders, I knew that if I really concentrated on a sea-change within my body long enough, deep enough, it would occur.

And so, counting my missing teeth, I decided to grow a third set.

I thought about it every two or three days, rolling the images about in my mind like one might pick up and finger some memento, or gaze out the window at the birds at the feeder.

I did this for three years.

Then as I slept one night, I dreamt.

From the doorway of a bedroom I looked in upon a bed, and behind the bed a window. My mother lay on the bed.

It was her, sure enough, but I was repulsed: she had two heads.

She spoke, "If you want another set of teeth, you will have to grow another head."

I gave up the project.

Want to comment on this Prose? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Prose and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...