The Green Tiles Hold Rain

The kitchen smells of turmeric and old soap. I stand by the steel countertop where I cooked ten years ago, the Formica edge chipped at the corner. My fingers cup the molar, a yellowed tooth, its root curved strangely. Beside it, the small, unmarked wooden box weighs a pound, radiating a faint heat. I turn my hand over the tooth, then over the box. I understand this connection, this specific weight in my chest for the box, though I cannot name what it contains. Above, a sheet of the ceiling is bowed, holding a small, steady drizzle. The drops tap the linoleum surface, cool and rhythmic. The sink basin, stainless steel, holds a volume of air the colour of silt. I lift the box, feeling the perfect, unsettling density of it. The water falling from the ceiling drips onto the molar. I watch the stain spread on the smooth, pale enamel.