I squeeze out the last bit, screw back the top and put the empty tube with the rest in the chest of drawers my parents bought us when we married.
The first one I kept was from the hospital. You hadn’t finished it and nor did I.
I tried a different brand once, but it didn’t taste of you.
Every month I arrange the empty tubes into different patterns. Once, I made a face, it’s eyes stared back at me with tears of discarded toothpaste. Jack says I should toss them all away. He says chuck everything.
Maybe, next month.