Dear Kali

There isn't much to do when you are stuck in the dentist's chair, waiting for the hygienist to come in and clean your teeth.  You can't have your phone on, and you'll do just about anything to not listen to the soft jazz playing over the sound system.  So, I looked around the office, trying to amuse myself.  There is only so much in the 180 degree view I have from the chair, so it wasn't hard to bypass the framed pictures of sailboats, schooners, and other things I can't afford because I'm not a dentist.  My eyes settled on a hand drawn picture from a child. This picture: 

It took me a couple a seconds to process what I was seeing.  Kali, a small red child, was obviously attacked by the dentist, who likes wearing human hearts on his smock to terrorize his victims.  Immediately, too many questions came to mind.  I have never seen a child in the office.  This is not a pediatric dentist office.  How did you get in here, and who are you working for?  How did you smuggle in crayons, because they don't have them here.  I know, I've asked. 

Once those were posed, my brain went further.  What have your parents done to you?  What kind of name is Kali?  Short for "Kali Ma You Have Sinned Against Shiva"?  Is Brittany not a good name anymore?  Susan, Betty, Jennifer, Flo?  Why Kali? 

Horrified, I saw what my mind had blocked out the first eighty times I read it.  It was too much to see that the picture was "Form Kali".  That one last thing would have broken me, so my mind made me see it say "From".  I also read it as Dentist, because the only thing I know that is called a Demtist is a lesser demon from hell that feeds on the fears of baby koalas. 

My mind wouldn't stop as the hygienist and dentist worked on my teeth.  It was exactly like sex: me lying motionless and confused while a woman pokes around in my mouth, a man watches, and Peabo Bryson plays softly in the background.