Most of my childhood
was spent in a narrow condominium that only set itself apart from all of the
others with its bright blue door. I
doubt my mother painted it; it did not fit her personality. Something about her face said “off-white front
door.” She had a sweet, conservative
smile that could mediate any confrontation.
It was just the two of us, with an occasional small white
dog—depending on how tolerant she was feeling at the time. We must have gone through at least four of
these little creatures during our time there.
I always told her that the animals made the rough carpet smell like
Tostito’s, but she would just laugh.
Even now, I stand by this claim, faithful to my adolescent nose.
Though I know my mother is a wonderful cook, I only seem
to remember eating chicken breasts every single night. As long as she kept seven different marinades
on hand, she could fool me enough for the first few years. Maybe it is all I would eat, or maybe she did
not feel the need to impress a child whose only real concerns were basketball
and television. For me, dinner was just
an obstacle.
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