We have been dating for 18 years and married for 16 years. My now ex said he wanted to keep the house but not have kids. We had nowhere to go. I was angry, anemic, and going crazy with grief and fear. I couch surfed, streamed Ashley Judd serial killer movies, and furiously searched for housing in southern states on realtor.com. I wasn't sure where I wanted to live, but it wasn't the Midwest. Minus 30-degree winters and sweltering hot summers, a failed marriage, and a farmer's market where my booth was no longer the star of the show. I was no longer a farmer. I was no longer a wife. I was a middle-aged, out-of-work, overweight ex-wife. And lost.

My children and I were together. We were poor beyond imagination, but we were able to rebuild and heal. Together. I wrapped my grief around those words, hid beneath my heartbreak, and searched the pages of realtors. In my imagination, Savannah, Georgia, is a place of writers and artists, warmth, sweet tea, and endless boulevards. It had to have hardwood floors because my son's asthma and carpet are a deadly combination, five bedrooms so that each child could have his or her own room, a room dedicated to writing for me, and a fireplace because I vowed, Scarlett O'Hara style, "I'm not cold anymore." There was only one property. One. A five-bedroom farmhouse just outside of Savannah. The listing said: needs a new foundation and roof. The seller is very motivated. The pictures were at odd angles, and every room was painted a strange pale pink.

I sent an email and made an appointment to see the house 1,200 miles away.

The white farmhouse, built in 1875, looked small from the road. It was barely visible through the live oaks and crepe myrtle trees. The perspective made it look like a French painting, and the heat of the sandy beach drive distorted the view. Gaudy pink and white azaleas grew thickly and stood surrounding the wraparound porch. If a house's entire exterior could be shabby chic, this one was.

I walked up the wide porch steps and opened the front door. Feeling the wood floors underfoot, I smelled the condition of the plumbing and wiring, everything painted pink, water damage, the sinks all turned off, and the various smells of an abandoned house mixed with old smoke and moisture. I could see through the mold on the walls, the badly tilted floors, and the dust. The house was big-boned and would sustain me and my grief. It was enough. I listened to the creak of the floor, leaned against the door frame, noted the cracks and the buckling of the plaster. This house would sustain me. This house, too, has not been abandoned.

The sellers were motivated, the house was in terrible shape, but I knew the business. Before I became a poet, I helped my grandfather with carpentry and used a hammer. Heart pine hardwood floors, bright 1950s kitchen, three fireplaces, wraparound porch. The kids and I were going to fill this house with love and laughter. And we got it.