Turn 172 of 233

Take Kimo running with you at dawn — see if he can run on grass beside the stroller. He also points at me and says Mama

The trailhead is wet with dew and the dew is the thing that clings to the grass and the grass is the thing Lena has been thinking about since Dr. Parekh said to run on it three months ago. The concrete is her surface and the concrete is the thing her feet know — 680 pounds of callused, cracked skin striking pavement for thirty-seven miles. But the grass is soft and the soft is the thing she wants for Kimo because Kimo's feet are not her feet. Kimo's feet are seven months old and the seven months is the thing that has no calluses and the no calluses is the thing that needs a softer surface and the softer surface is the thing the trailhead grass provides.

Sina is not here today. Wednesday is Sina's rest day and the rest day is the thing that gives Lena the trail alone with Kimo. The jogging stroller is loaded and the loaded is the water and the snacks and the snacks are the thing Lena packs for a boy who eats every hour. Kimo is in the stroller and the stroller is the thing he knows — the seat, the harness, the view of his mother's back as she runs. But this morning is different and the different is the thing Lena is going to try.

She lifts Kimo out of the stroller and sets him on the grass and the grass is wet and the wet is the thing that touches his feet and his feet feel it. He looks down. The looking down is the thing he does when the surface changes and the surface is new. The grass is cool and soft and the cool and soft is not the concrete and the not concrete is the thing his toes curl against and the curling is the thing that says he is feeling it.

Lena crouches beside him and the crouching is 680 pounds dropping to haunches that squat 500. She points down the trail and the pointing is the thing she does before she says the word.

"Go, buddy. Run."

Kimo lets go of the stroller wheel and the letting go is the thing. One step. Two. The grass is uneven and the uneven is the thing his feet read and the reading is fast — the ankles adjusting, the knees bending, the hips finding the balance that the concrete gave him and the grass is asking him to find again. Three steps. Four. The fourth step is longer and the longer is the thing that is not walking. Five steps. Six. Seven. The seven steps are a run and the run is the thing he found on the balcony and the balcony was concrete and the concrete was flat and the grass is not flat and the not flat is the thing he is running on. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

He falls. The falling is the thing that happens when the foot catches a tuft and the tuft is the thing the grass gives and the giving is the trip. He goes down on his hands and knees and the hands and knees are on the wet grass and the wet is on his skin. He doesn't cry. The not crying is the thing that Lena sees and the seeing is the thing that says the fall was not a hurt. The fall was information. He pushes up and the pushing up is the thing his arms do and the arms are the arms that are 78 pounds of boy and the 78 pounds is the thing that pushes and the pushing works. He is up. He runs again.

Lena pushes the stroller beside him and the beside is the thing she does for six minutes and the six minutes is the thing she counts. Kimo runs in bursts — ten steps, twelve, eight, eleven — and the bursts are separated by walking and the walking is the thing between the running. He falls twice more and the twice more is the thing that doesn't stop him. Each time he pushes up and runs again and the again is the word he said yesterday and the yesterday is the thing that is today.

Then he stops. The stopping is at the quarter-mile mark and the quarter-mile is the thing Lena knows from counting. Kimo is breathing and the breathing is the thing that is fast and the fast is the thing that says the running worked his body and the body is telling him. He puts his hands on his knees and the putting is the thing that is the posture of a runner and the runner is the thing he is at seven months. He looks up at Lena and the looking up is the looking of a boy who ran on grass and the grass was new and the new was the thing he figured out.

He points at her. The pointing is the thing that is not random and the not random is the thing that is direct — his finger extended, his arm straight, his eyes on her face. He has pointed before. He has pointed at walls and nails and doors. He has not pointed at a person. The person is the thing he is pointing at and the person is Lena.

"Mama," he says.

The saying is the word and the word is the fifty-seventh word and the fifty-seventh is the thing that is different from every word before it. Every word before it was a thing — wall, nail, heavy, done. Mama is not a thing. Mama is a person. Mama is the first word that identifies a person and the first is the thing that Lena hears and the hearing is the thing that lands in the place where the nail gun lives and the nail gun is not there. There is only the word and the word is her and her is the thing Kimo said.

Lena is still. The still is the still of a woman who has been called mama before — in the word list, in the tracking, in the words she reported to Dr. Parekh: mom, dad. But mom is a word on a list. Mama is the thing Kimo said while pointing at her face on a wet trailhead at dawn after running eleven steps on grass and the saying is the thing that is not a list. The saying is the thing that is direct and the direct is the thing that is the boy looking at his mother and naming her and the naming is the thing that is the word.

She picks him up and the picking is 78 pounds and the 78 is nothing. She holds him against her chest and the chest is tattooed and the tattooed is the skin he knows and the knowing is the thing that is home. He is wet with grass and sweat and the wet is on her skin and the on her skin is the thing she doesn't wipe away. She stands on the trail with her son and the standing is the thing that is the morning and the morning is the thing that is the word and the word is mama.

"Yeah, buddy," she says. "I'm Mama."

Kimo hums against her collarbone and the humming is the thing between words and the between is getting shorter. The grass is wet under her feet and her feet are callused and cracked and the cracked is the thing that has run thirty-seven miles on concrete and the concrete is not this. This is grass and grass is the thing her son ran on and the running is the thing he did and the did is the thing that is the morning. She puts him back in the stroller and the putting is the thing that says the running is done for now and the for now is the thing that is true because the word mama is still in her ears and the still is the thing that is not going anywhere.