My father uprooted the linoleum tile after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants. The owners of the house before had laid down their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen back in 1959. I would toddle in and out of the doorway playing with the grout spacers, and reaching for sourdough in the pantry. All while stepping tiny pink sandals around the dead ants. I wanted to help my father, but was too afraid to go near the oven. The oven, whose exhaust fan would snarl like an animal of the night. Incandescent, where they found Sylvia Plath. Stained with oil like a forgotten Jackson *******.
Foreboding of it’s adjacent countertop where eventually would lay divorce papers.