Praise the Target carpet that holds our cat in repose,
his black body a mossy rock in a lake of geometric flowers.

Praise the coffee table with its heat rings from hot cups
and the pristine coasters in the near basket, unused.

Praise your grandmother’s bentwood rocker with its torn caning
softened by a stained orange pillow, and the history of all those who’ve sat there.

Praise the kitchen cupboard that won’t close, the chipped plates,
the Ikea dishes on the uppermost shelf that we can’t reach.

Praise the made bed with its coverlet dragged across
rumpled flannel sheets even in the hottest months of summer.

Praise the newly-planted picket fence with its white slats
and the Ragged Robin roses we cut to canes in the wrong season.

Praise our older son’s music that emanates from the bathroom.
Praise our younger son’s bicycle that barely fits in the back of the minivan.

Praise the sirens that slide past our house in response
to the crack of a car splitting open, and that it isn’t one of ours.

Praise this house whose old bones shake and rattle
with every truck, every temblor, every heavy bass.

Praise the candles left lit in the night, the house that does not burn.
Praise this perfectly imperfect life. It is ours and ours alone.


© by Cati Porter.
Used with the author’s permission.