Sold

The realtor ushered us up the cracked sidewalk, Paint peeling from the clapboards Revealed a rainbow of colors in the cracks. Like a geologist who looks at canyon walls And sees the ebb and flow of oceans writ large, We could chart the house’s history In the dusty rose and drab olive paint layers. We entered through the loose-handled Squeaky-hinged door. Age had faded the carpet and worn The tread of the stair, Desolation rattled the glass in the window Then worked its cold autumn bite into the rooms. We were invited into the kitchen, where Surrounded by hot pads Put together by young fingers, Were freshly baked chocolate chip cookies Carefully arranged on a simple white plate. The well-polished white oven clicked As it cooled. A framed needlepoint announced, “This is Mom’s kitchen, where hugs are free.” This is the place we adopted, This is home.