dirt and machine oil
I remember the taste of dirt and machine oil as my great uncle wrapped the string around my tooth, and then around the door handle. All the adults were on the porch, a sea of big people with big toothy grins all looking at me, the shared humour still rolling like waves over them. His leathery skin rough and fingers clumsy and yet the string successfully tied while I was caught up in his charming capacity to make you feel like the only one in the room. My nervousness creeping back in and cresting like a fast tide and before I could take stock of the moment the door slammend and my tooth was sitting in his hand. His charm never wavering and the laughter in the air still rolling as i was swept into their magic.