None of the furniture matched.

Months, the mishmash congregated

while the tenants came and went.

We liked the flow: nothing bought and

nothing owned. Streetside, we found

fans, chairs, couches, shelves. One day,

Elliot hauled an old clawfoot bathtub

four blocks to the courtyard. He filled

the tub with dirt, grew bathfuls of basil

all December. Shared it out by the bunch

and jarred the rest as pesto. Once, we

sowed six garlic-moons that grew into

six gripping fists. Six twelve-chambered

hearts, a velvety newborn stink. We crushed

that magnificent stink into a patterned riot

of bowls. Stewed soup in forty-litre pots.

Brewed peppermint tea for ten in saucepans.

Threw blankets on the couches: waffle-knit

and granny-patch, plaid and geometrics.

We studied the clouds, who can’t hoard

the wealth of water and are broken if they try.

We never bought matching crockery, preferred

our own odd medley. A penguin-headed

teaspoon, an Eeyore-topped wine cork, retro

terracotta mugs. Cacophonies of cups had

wended their way to the shelves for years.

None of it looked neat or sorted. Mismatched

plates stack poorly. But what we had was

ornament. Pattern. Stories of who’d brought

what to the house. We kept olive jars for

homemade candles. Hand-clipped wicks

all bent to sniff the scents we’d picked:

Cinnamon and apple. Lemongrass and lime.

A patchwork where each piece was home.