The Weight of Another Hand

My hand weighs two pounds, the density of a man’s arm. I taste the lemon rind of the green enamel cup. The tiles in the kitchen are pale yellow, marked with salt spills that dried ten years ago. I hold the tooth, a clean ivory sliver, between thumb and forefinger. It feels cool against the heat of my palm. I stop talking. The air behind me smells of wet wool and stale bread. I pivot, my shoulder brushing the edge of the steel counter. I just spoke three words, a name, but the sound moves from my throat like a bell struck once in another room. I look down at the tooth, its surface catching the half-light, and wait for the name to arrive back.