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.

familyhomefree verse

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