'Shiva' by Noa Covo

When the first rain comes, Doda’s teeth begin to fall out. They had been threatening to do so since Dod was put in the ground, and the rain scatters them across the floor like yellow stars. I try to gather them with a broom, but Doda tells me to leave them. She opens the windows and urges the droplets in with a gummy smile.

Welcome, she says as puddles gather on the carpet. Sit with us.

The rain slides down the glass of Dod’s picture and nibbles away at the stale cookies on the coffee table. The wind nestles in the indentation I made on the couch after a week of sitting.

I follow Doda as she goes up to the rooftop, gathering the teeth that fall underfoot. From the roof we can see the neighborhood in its summer stillness. The rain kisses the streets gently awake, makes them stir and stretch in the afternoon light.  

Doda raises her arms to the sky as if to meet heaven halfway, as if to conduct lightning. The neighborhood’s dust rises into the air, along with the condolences left to gather in the gutter. The neighbors come out of their houses. They look up at Doda as the indifference of summer washes away.

Go open the door, Doda tells me.

I let the mourners in. I take their dried exoskeletons and hang them on the coat rack. In the living room, their new forms unfurl. They crowd the flooded couch, muttering their sympathies. In lieu of cookies, Doda hands around her fallen teeth, and they crunch on them with open mouths.

We’re sorry for your loss, they say with bright eyes. They shed the last of their husks and laugh. For a moment there, we thought you were mourning us, too.