My dentist is a kind man. He apologizes to his assistant if she can't hear him the first time. She is over eighty and has no intention of retiring. He also says "please" every time he asks for an instrument. It seems like she is the boss, but I keep my mouth shut. Actually, I keep it open. 

Over the years I have learned about their families. Her mother had both twins and triplets. I would have gasped but my mouth was full of gauze. 

He reassures me about the pinch of the needle and the whir of the grinder. One time I asked, in that muffled way a patient does, why he kept saying he needed a football. He launched into an explanation about the shapes of each tool, and how they work against the enamel. It turns out that it has nothing to do with the NFL.

Intellectually, I understand that filling cavities entails drills, and time. Emotionally, though, it is a vulnerable place to sit. Like most people, I resolve inwardly to brush more religiously. Not with actual prayer, I guess, but with fervor. It keeps the white in my smile. 

My spiritual life involves check-ups too. Not with a practitioner, per se, but with a hard look at my choices. Am I critical? Well, rather, not if, but when? What damage do those biting words do? 

It is my belief that such exams should happen with the same regularity as dental visits. Waiting too long with either can cause long term problems. Looking for those corrosive words that hide in crevices is not exactly a treasure hunt, but it does give me the chance to put authenticity in my smile.