The Visit

I'm writing this while watching the clock. Outside a dank rainy day matches my waiting—each drop another second in the count down. Today is my semi-annual dentist appointment. I drag myself in and it's never as fraught with anxiety as I imagine, but then my imagination is also an asset. I imagine myself walking out—free.

Growing up the family dentist had an office in my apartment building—ground level, to the left of the lobby. I recall that he relied on sweet talk to convince you that the drill worked without having any additional support from a shot in the mouth.

"Just raise your hand if I'm really hurting you."

His next favorite line, "I'm almost done." A line I've learned to recognize as attesting to the inadequate sense of timing enjoyed by certain professions.


While I don't recall his last name—his first name was Aaron, I do remember his sculptures. His small wood and stone carved pieces filled every flat space in his waiting room—a rather cramped space. Some were abstract while others quite representative—none looked like molars.

A large molar shaped pedestal holds a glass tabletop in my present dentist's office. Children's books are strewn on top. Rather traumatic for an office. I wonder if she sculpts— something besides teeth.