My mother never said, Don’t Usher The Good Times In. She never took the pot from my hand and said, Don’t Beat On It With A Stick. Don’t Make Noise. She never threw up the window shade and said, Don’t Look Out. Or, I Remember Chilly Scenes of Winter.
I remember my father sang a song about a railroad that stretched all the way from our living room to Kansas.
“What else,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “Teach me to dance in the kitchen.”