..and the inevitable poem:

Almost Home

Houses have a soul.

This one is no different.

It lives and breathes and speaks

in different accents than the ones before,

but, as with new friends, we decipher

as best we can

what our relationship will be.

It was chilly, dry and sterile,

its courtyard a blank brick box

with a thirsty black fountain

and sprouting weeds

in the concrete planters

crouching on the wall.

Inside, the mismatched colors,

the schizophrenic lavender-browns paired

with creamy yellow and grayed-out whites,

swallowed the token pictures on the walls:

like thick glasses framing the squinty eyes

of a child who had forgotten how to play.

But now, we have angels dancing along the kitchen counter,

and arks on every shelf;

pictures and colored maps embrace odd corners,

and a fan-shaped mirror hangs

above a fan-shaped window

like a silent play on words.

There is pottery in the windowed bathroom cabinet

and cheerful monsters on the windowseat,

and a lion doorknocker smiling

on a Christmas red door.

And the courtyard now has flowers:

Velvet petunias and firecracker geraniums

tempered with spiky purple plants,

with basil and mint, and pots of holly…

The leaves rustle, and the fountain almost burbles

—just a little—

when I come through the gate.

It’s almost home.