Turn 154 of 233

Call Janet and tell her Kimo said his first word. She laughs too upon hearing it. Then take kimo to the site tomorrow

The phone is still in her hand and the laugh is still in her chest and the boy is still on the concrete humming and the humming is different now because there is a word underneath it and the word is big. Lena dials Janet. The phone rings once and the one is the one of a mother who answers fast when her daughter calls at night.

"Mom. He talked."

The line is quiet. The quiet is the quiet of a grandmother who is waiting for the word and the waiting is the holding of breath.

"He said big."

The line is quiet for two more seconds and the two seconds are the two seconds of Janet processing the word and the processing is fast and the fast is the fast of a grandmother who knows her grandson and knows the word and knows the word is right. Janet laughs. The laugh is the laugh Lena heard three weeks ago on the phone — the real one, the big one, the one that fills the room and comes from the place where Janet keeps the things that crack her open. The laugh is full and bright and the bright is the bright of a woman who has just heard her three-month-old grandson say his first word and the word is big and the big is the funniest thing she has ever heard.

"Big," Janet says. The word is still in her mouth and the mouth is still laughing.

"His first word is big."

"He was looking right at me, Mom. Right at my face. He opened his mouth and said it clear. Not a mumble. Not a sound. The word. Big."

"Of course it was," Janet says. The laughing is settling and the settling is the settling of a woman who is not surprised and the not surprised is the love.

"Of course his first word is big. What else would it be?"

"He's three months old, Mom."

"I know."

"Three months."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." Janet's voice is thick now and the thickness is the thickness of a grandmother who is laughing and crying at the same time and the same time is the time she lives in now.

"Samuel needs to hear this. He's in the other room. Let me — Samuel. Samuel, come here."

There is shuffling and the shuffling is the shuffling of a phone being passed and the passing is the passing from one parent to another and the other is the one who doesn't talk and the not talking is the not talking of a man who is about to hear something.

"Lena," Samuel says. The voice is the voice she knows — quiet, careful, the voice of a man who uses words the way he uses lumber, sparingly and to specification.

"He said big, Dad. His first word. Big."

The line is quiet. The quiet is the quiet of Samuel and the quiet of Samuel is longer than Janet's quiet and the longer is the longer of a man who is hearing that his grandson said his first word at three months and the word is big and the big is the word and the word is the thing. Lena waits. The waiting is the waiting she has learned with her father and the learning is the patience and the patience is the thing she built.

"Big," Samuel says. The word is the word and the word is the word his grandson said and the saying of it in Samuel's voice is the saying of a man who is holding something carefully and the carefully is the way he holds everything that matters. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The word is enough and the enough is the enough of a man who means it.

"I'm taking him to the site tomorrow," Lena says. "He'll be crawling on the pad all day. Come if you want."

"We'll come," Janet says. The phone is back in her hand and the hand is the hand of a mother who has decided and the deciding is not a question.

"We'll be there by seven."

Lena hangs up and the balcony is dark and the boy is asleep on the concrete and the sleeping is the sleeping of a boy who said his first word today and the word was big and the big is the structure and the structure holds.