The Weight of the Tooth

The upstairs landing is polished pine wood. Dust gathers in the seams of the floorboards. I press the tooth into the deep pocket of my jeans. It is a perfect, milky white curve. A woman stands by the window, her arms crossed. She looks at me with the quiet recognition of a mistake. Next to her stands a girl who has my jawline, but she wears my mother's plain blue dress. The girl reaches out and touches my elbow. I feel a deep ache, a pressure in my lower back that belongs to someone else. I turn to the woman. She nods to the girl. The girl smiles and walks past me. I drop the tooth into the shallow bowl of the hall table. The ache settles, heavy and misplaced.