A Tooth For A Tooth

Counterclockwise, then clockwise, my fingers move. It's all about feeling. Closing my eyes always helps.

"Not too much longer, Mrs. Dolores."

She nods her head. Snoring then envelopes the room. I continue to twist the endodontic file.

"Dentists aren't doctors."

Dad's voice echoes in my head.

It's been snowing for two days. I'm closing the office early today, with Mrs. Delores being the last patient. I feel my assistant's gaze piercing through my head. Some teeth are easier than others—some I need to take my time.

Early this morning, I drove to our old church. On the bench outside, the snow covered the seats like fluffy cushions. I watched white feathered crystals blanket the ground while a few bounced in the wind. In a few days, things would be different. A reminder that whatever we bury inside resurfaces.

With teeth shattering, my hands clenched and unclenched. The burning in my fingertips continued. It was a year ago during a similar snowy day. I should pay my respects, but my feet seem planted. In the distance, a redpoll lands on his gravestone. Who said a gravestone is an end to a story?

I remove the rubber dam, and the assistant takes the final X-rays.

"Root canal is completed, Mrs. Delores. Get home safely, and let us know if you need anything."

She smiles and hugs me, reminding me I'm her favorite dentist.

Walking to my office, I whisper, "You must let it go! Everyone, even the dead, deserves a second chance."