In the back of my closet, among the old pairs of glasses and hairbrushes I no longer know what to do with, is a small envelope marked "TEETH." Inside are two of my wisdom teeth, extracted fifteen years ago. I've never known what to do with them, but I've never thrown them away, either. Mostly because it's such a novelty. If I throw them away, chances are I'll never have an envelope like that again.

And teeth are cool, aren't they, in sort of a scary way? Most of the time, they're useful but fairly high-maintenance body parts. So there they are, in the envelope. Most of the time I forget about them, except when I stumble across them, trying to figure out if I should buy more cotton balls or where the hand mirror is. And then there they are, having moved from house to house, useful no more, but still in a strange way permanent appendages.