Blessing for an Old Home That Has Just Been Sold

Bless the DNA in the bones of this house:
hair, spit, women’s blood.
The men bled, too:
the carpenter who left his thumb-blood on the pantry wall,
the boy who sliced his cheek as he pretended to shave.

Bless the produce in the root cellar:
potatoes with alien eyeballs sprouting from their skulls,
carrots lying stiff as cadavers in their boxes of dirt.
Sugar beets fading to the dull maroon of rubies in the raw.

This six-room house,
bless its memories of cooking:
spices that simmered in stews and soups –
tarragon, curry, cardamom.
Corned beef and cabbage steaming on a platter.
Bok choy sizzing in a wok,
and oh,
the oven, the beloved oven,
how it melted chocolate chips into rising cookie dough.

Bless this house and its memories of sounds:
hiss of woolen scarves drying on the radiator,
swish of lace doilies brushing against Persian-cat fur,
shatter of a milk glass falling from a little girl’s hand.
And the coital night noises:
the hard, hard breaths, the quaking bedframes.

Bless this house and its memories of work:
the woman who pummeled bread dough like a welterweight,
biceps straining against her sleeves.
The couple with sandpaper and a bucket of varnish,
their skin cells buried under layers of polyurethane.

Bless the moments of anger and hurt:
yes, there were affairs and betrayals,
there was gambling and drink.
Parents who favored the strap.

Most of all, bless the memories of love:
the sweet swaddling of newborn twins,
the mother who rocked her fevered child to sleep,
how she rocked him and hummed,
how she rocked and she hummed.
Siblings who held a blue popsicle against the lips of their dying father.

And the realtor holding now a bouquet of balloons:
praise her for joining this old home to this family of three.

Bless these new owners cleansing the rooms with sage.
Praise the fragrant sticks as they burn.
Bless these new owners as they take their turn.