That morning Kama stood at the sink, her ass pressed against the upper edge of the chair behind her, head wrapped in cloth patterned with tangerines and palm trees. When Kama looked back to emphasize a point, Dune saw the sweat beading on her mother’s brow and lip as her hands flew through the air with the sponge, the dishes and her opinions.

It was heavy in the heart of the room. Pots and pans hung an inch too low over the table from a silver grid, something Kama had seen in a movie once and said she thought was so elegant. Dune’s father, Brendon, had loved doing things for Kama; quietly delivering her fantasies, even if he always did it a bit differently than the instructions. Kama had to have all the cooking options hanging up there: the wok, steamer, non-stick pans and a massive griddle that seemed to drag the ceiling down.

She only ever used the cast iron skillet that sat on the stove now, thick with oil.

The counter beside the stove was dominated by a decades-old wooden spinning smorgasbord of spices. Dune had read somewhere that spices lost their flavor with time, the bite and purity of flavor falling away. She’d started bringing home small bags of fresh spice mixes from the Spice Miser stand at the farmer’s market: Chili Powder, Parsley and Rosemary, Lemon Pepper, Herbs de Provence. Kama would always say they looked “really interesting,” and then put them up on a shelf with the rest of Dune’s unused kitchen contributions, an impressive collection.

A well-worn bottle of Lawry’s and a mason jar of nutritional yeast sat between the spice wheel and the oven. Those were Kama’s kitchen moves beyond the obvious (salt, pepper, butter, brown sugar).

At the opposite end of the counter was the ancient maroon and cream rice cooker, used less and less as Mama Vivian lost interest in food and cooking. Brendon had used it daily; no matter what Kama was cooking it needed some rice.

On the other side of the oven was a little corner where nothing quite fit. Kama kept her broom and mop back there, even though it was a precarious thing pulling them out, banging the pans above into chorus.

Now Kama was saying something about going to pick up her check from “the capitalist pigs.” “Of course they moved the office down to Fort Street, almost down to the bridge, because the truth is they know come winter it’s gonna be that much harder to get over there on the bus. Its like eight blocks from the nearest stop. Naw, they don’t even want us to get our checks that we earned. Like it’s a handout! Half the city is on unemployment now! And they couldn’t put it somewhere convenient?”