Fixer-Upper

We hire guys who drywall, paint, and spackle.We hire guys who arrive in hazmat suits to pry up the asbestos.Inside the air-con ducts, there's a decade's worth of dander;the duct guys snake a hose, wide as a tree, up the south wall,through a window, and screw it to a ceiling vent. Poof—outside, in the yard, a three-story grime cloud scatters.

The men who come to clean the guttersfind dead squirrels, dead birds, packed inside the rotting sodlike a clan of dolls in one cradle. Elsewhere, plastic saints,ceramic shamrocks, stacks of old clothes, a rocking horse,a walking stick—all left behind. We get rid of it. The ragged rosebusheswe dig up, and pile curbside. Clearing away rancid leavesand a knee-deep riot of creeping vines, we find a phone,a ring of keys, and, buried upright under coarse, tough weeds,a lawn sign from a long-lost presidential campaign.

What seems irreplaceable, we set aside,in case the previous owner ever does call back. Poking aroundin the overgrown grass, we find a hunk of cement,embedded with irregular bits of colored glassarranged around a pair of handprints, small and big.

The girl's bedroom is now where our son sleeps.He rolls his fire engines across the windowsill.Opening a closet door, we find, written inside,in felt-tip pen, in a child's hand,This is the O'Malleys' house.The O'Malleys lived here.