My father used to say “the kitchen is closed.” When he was there. Even though it had no door. The kitchen was an oasis of leftovers and snacks and juice and red dye number 5. The kitchen closed when he decided we had enough. Food. Drink. Nourishment. When he wasn’t there, my mother kept the kitchen open. We were never hungry. Never left to want for anything. But our father. When he wasn’t there, she kept the house door open, too.