The kitchen chairs–red vinyl seats and back, chrome metal base, like an S without a top–had become a hazard. The angled metal below our knees would sometimes give out, bend and the person in that particular chair would without warning begin to deflate, maybe be held in the air for that one split second before descent, like a volunteer in a dunk tank. My mother blamed my brother, leaning back in the chairs, all casual in his teen-ness, for bending the chairs, when shifting his weight and altering the physics of the thing. The same could be said for his presence in our household. All arms and legs and attitude shifting the air even when he wasn’t moving. The table was still sturdy, the chrome legs doubled pipes, and the laminate top resistant to stains and knife cuts. Some nights when I didn’t want to eat one of my vegetables and was made to sit at the table until I did, I would run my fingernail along the grooves of the chrome that ringed the table, chipping away at the dried food that had accumulated there over the years, that my mother’s well-intentioned cleaning never quite prevented. It was the same with the cabinets, pale wood, plain fronts, delicate metal handles that caught grime that hardened over time. There was a circle of worn-away varnish around each of the handles where she had used a rough sponge or a cleaning detergent too harsh and her error became visual to everyone so available for judgment. To me, there were items all over the kitchen that incited my fear. A coffee can of gathered leftovers scraped from plates stowed under the kitchen sink and saved for the outside animals. Another rusted can of rusted batteries in the bottom junk drawer below the overstuffed drawer of kitchen towels. Another can at the top of the closet with bullets for the shotgun that hung below it.