Turn 162 of 233

Call Sina and tell her about the walking and the new words. Let Kimo practice walking on the Balcony.

Lena calls from the truck before she drives home and the phone is the phone she holds with one hand and the other hand is on the car seat where Kimo is humming. The humming is the soundtrack and the soundtrack is the thing Sina hears first when she picks up.

"He's walking," Lena says. The saying is the way she says things to Sina — direct, no architecture, the words laid flat like lumber on a pad.

"What do you mean walking."

"Walking. Steps. On the site pad today. Fifteen steps. He fell twice and got up. He's four months old, Sina."

The line is quiet and the quiet is the quiet of a woman who has been running with Lena for over a year and has watched the woman in front of her grow and grow and grow and the growing has never stopped surprising her and the surprise is not shock. The surprise is the thing Sina keeps in the place where she keeps the things that make her shake her head.

"Fifteen steps," Sina says. The repetition is the repetition of a woman who is measuring and the measuring is the thing Sina does.

"And words. He's got more now. Big, up, more, hot. Today he added down, go, cold. Seven words. All single syllables, all directed at the right thing. He said cold at the concrete in the morning. He said go when I set him at the start line."

"Seven words at four months."

"Seven words."

Sina is quiet again and the quiet is shorter this time because Sina processes fast and the fast is the thing Lena knows about her. The breathing comes and the breathing is the breathing of a woman who is recalibrating the scale she uses to measure what is normal and the recalibrating is the thing she has been doing since the first run when Lena showed up barefoot and 200 pounds heavier than the last time.

"My son didn't walk until thirteen months," Sina says. The saying is not comparison. The saying is the saying of a mother who is placing her son next to Lena's son and the placing is the thing she does to understand the distance.

"He didn't say his first word until eleven months."

"Kimo's his own kid."

"He is. He really is." Sina's voice has the thing it has — the warmth that comes from the place where she keeps the things that crack her open and the cracking is not breaking. The cracking is opening.

"How's the running?"

"Thirty-four miles. Concrete. Feet are holding."

"The gap's closing, Lena."

The gap is the gap between Sina's pace and Lena's pace and the closing is the thing that has been happening for months — Lena getting faster, Sina staying the same, the distance between them shrinking mile by mile and the shrinking is the thing neither of them talks about directly and the directly is the thing they both avoid because the gap closing means the next race is the race where Lena pulls even.

"I know," Lena says.

"I'll see you Saturday."

"Saturday."

---

The balcony is the balcony Lena knows — concrete slab, open sky, the barbell rack in the corner, the kettlebells lined along the railing. The sun is low and the low is the thing that makes the concrete warm and the warm is the surface Kimo knows. Lena sets him on his feet at the far end and the far end is twenty feet from the barbell rack and the twenty feet is the distance. She crouches at the rack and the crouching is the crouching she knows and the arms are open.

"Come on, buddy. Walk to Mama."

Kimo lets go of the railing and the letting go is the thing. One step. Two. Three. The rhythm is the rhythm from the pad — slow, deliberate, the wobble smaller now than this morning. The concrete is warm and the warm is the thing his feet know and the knowing is in his soles. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. The steps are steady and the steadiness is the thing that is new and the new is the thing that comes with practice and the practice is the thing he is doing. Ten. Eleven. He sits at eleven and the sitting is the sitting of a boy who has crossed eleven steps on the balcony and the eleven is the number.

Lena sets him up again. The setting up is the standing and the standing is his. He goes. The steps come and the coming is the thing — thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. The fifteenth step reaches her knees and the reaching is the arrival and the arrival is the thing she catches him at. She picks him up and the picking is 44 pounds and the 44 is nothing.

"Good job, buddy."

Kimo hums and the humming is the drone and the drone is the thing between words. He looks at the barbell rack and the looking is the looking of a boy who is seeing something big and the big is the word.

"Big," Kimo says.

The word is at the barbell rack and the barbell rack is big and the big is right. Lena laughs and the laugh is the laugh she laughs at the site and the laugh is big and deep and the deep is the deep of a mother who has been called big by her four-month-old son and the calling is accurate. She sets him up again. He walks. The steps come and the coming is the thing and the thing is the structure and the structure holds. The boy walks the balcony until the sun is gone and the gone is the thing that ends the practice and the practice is the thing that will start again tomorrow.