You Don't Know Me, But You Don't Like Me

Dwight, who belonged to my mother

Stories became clear to me at the kitchen table in my childhood home. The kitchen table that was there once, the beige floors and brown wallpaper that line the decor of my memories, long before my parents put hardwood and skylights and an open flow to the footprint. I would sit with arms resting gently on the countertop and watch my mom triumphantly dro…