Reconstruction

Two hours in the dental chair, two syringes of Novocaine, one new crown. We talk about David Bowie, Donald Trump, Bernie; Florida, Mexico, Montreal; mattresses, computers, violin sonatas, discothèques. The chairside conversation moves seamlessly from English (with me) to French (with the dental assistant, who is Indian) with smatterings of German, Italian, Spanish. Trump isn't electable, I offer, through a mouth packed with cotton. "Oh yes he is, my dear," says the dentist. "'Give me your freedom, and in exchange I'll give you back everything you think you've lost.'" He is Romanian, and knows dictators, and I haven't the ability to argue, with all these fingers and metallic objects in my mouth.

When we're finally finished he says Auf Wiedersehen, and raises the chair. I answer Danke schön, and rise slowly, massaging my neck, and when I glance over at him, he's doing the same thing, grimacing. "Where did our twenty-year-old bodies go?" I ask, and laugh. He smiles: "We're aging gracefully," and puts his arm around my shoulder. "And with humor," I add. "Black as it is!"

Outside on St Catherine street at 2:00 pm, snow is falling steadily. I gulp lungfuls of the cold, damp air before entering the underground, buy a carrot muffin that I stash in my purse, and then stop in a public bathroom where I'm shocked to see my paralyzed face in the mirror, one side of my mouth frozen and drooping; I look like I've had a stroke. I pull my scarf around my jaw and take the metro to Papineau, where I wait in the snow to catch a grimy double bus north, feeling battered and hungry, and wondering when the anesthetic will have worn off enough that I can eat something without biting a hole in my face.

But when the bus starts up the hill, we pass a cherry tree, still loaded with bright red fruits, each cluster sporting a topknot of snow, and when I turn around to watch this marvel recede in the window I notice that the young woman behind me is studying a difficult classical piano score. I can't see the composer's name, just that it is a prelude, probably Bach, and I take a deep breath as I press the buzzer for my stop and allow the world to rearrange before stepping out into the clean snow.

Comments

[mary]

Your photograph, I think, is going to be one of my new, all-time favorites. Along with your essay, a perfect vignette of the day.Hope your mouth recovers soon.

[Hattie]

I love that photo too. It makes me feel very cold, though.

[Jean]

Yes, really wonderful, both words and photo.

[Jan]

How I wish I had seen this: "a cherry tree, still loaded with bright red fruits, each cluster sporting a topknot of snow".
I assume it is below Sherbrooke -- you have captured these moments so beautifully.

[Peter]

The cherry trees are, I submit, what there is to live for when every other prospect is bleak.

[Natalie]

May the mouth heal swiftly and well, Beth. Sorry you have to go through all this pain again but at least there's the blessing of an efficient and good-humored dentist. You're such a fine observer of life's daily miracoes and miseries!

[Natalie]

miracles, not miracoes (whatever those are).

[Roderick Robinson]

Conceivably one of the ugliest photographs you have ever taken; conceivably one of the most expressive. You say it's started to snow but it must be the wet kind; good news meteorologically but not aesthetically. And what a vignette in the text; what a huge representative sequence of the life you have lived. Chuck in a Pound Canto, a passing prayer and a phone call to J ("Prepare the Martinis.") and you're there in hologram form. The master-stroke is the tiny flirtation with vanity. Great stuff.

[Priya]

One of greatest blessings in the world is a soothing dentist.

[Beth]

Mary, thank you. I'm glad you liked this photograph - I've been doing more of this sort of thing over on Instagram and it's changing the way I'm looking at things.

Thank you, Hattie, Jean, Priya, Natalie.

Peter and Jan, I agree: those cherries absolutely lifted me out of the doldrums. What a sight!

Roderick - why didn't I think to call ahead for martinis? (Maybe because I knew I'd dribble it down my numb chin, how un-elegant!) Glad you liked.