Turn 175 of 233

Encourage Kimo to draw something. He draws me, poorly, but still. Also, I run 40 miles on concrete now and press 630 pounds. I also weigh 730.

The balcony is the floor that is the studio and the studio is the thing the morning makes it. Lena sets a sheet of plywood across two sawhorses and the plywood is the surface and the surface is the thing she puts paper on and the paper is the thing from the site office — grid paper, the kind Ray uses for measurements, yellow with blue lines. She sets a crayon on the paper. The crayon is red and the red is the thing Kimo picks because red is the color he reaches for first and the first is the thing that has been true since he could reach.

Kimo is standing at the plywood and the standing is the thing he does now without holding anything. He is 112 pounds and 46 inches and the 46 inches puts the paper at his chest height and the chest height is the thing that lets him look down at it. He picks up the crayon and the picking is the grip he has had since five months — thumb and forefinger, functional, the grip that took Dr. Parekh's pen and made a line on the clipboard. The line was a mark. This is a sheet of paper and the paper is the thing that is waiting.

"Draw something, buddy," Lena says. She is on the balcony floor beside him, 730 pounds of tattooed skin on concrete, her back against the railing, her legs stretched out. She ran forty miles this morning and the forty is up from thirty-seven and the three miles are the thing her legs found and the finding was on concrete and the concrete is the surface her feet know. Her feet are cracked and callused and the cracked is the thing that bleeds at forty miles and the bleeding is the thing she does not stop for. She pressed 630 this morning — up from 560, the bar bending across her chest in a way that felt like the bar was asking permission and her chest was giving it. Seven hundred and thirty pounds. The number is the number on the scale Friday and the scale is the thing that holds her and the holding is the thing the scale does.

Kimo looks at the paper. He looks at Lena. He looks at the paper. The looking is the thing that is the cycle — surface, person, surface — and the cycle is the thing that says he is deciding what to draw and the deciding is the thing that is not random. He puts the crayon on the paper. The putting is the beginning and the beginning is a circle. The circle is not round. The circle is the thing a ten-month-old hand makes when the hand is trying to make a circle and the trying is visible in the wobble and the wobble is the thing that says the motor is not caught up to the idea. The idea is a circle. The execution is a shape that almost gets there.

Then lines inside the circle. Two lines near the top — horizontal, spaced apart, with small marks beneath them. Eyes. The eyes are the thing that Kimo has been looking at since he was born and the looking is the thing he is drawing. Below the eyes a vertical line and the vertical line is a nose and the nose is the thing that is in the middle of a face and the middle is where he puts it. Below the nose a curve and the curve is open and the open is a mouth. The mouth is not smiling. The mouth is not frowning. The mouth is the thing that is a line and the line is the thing that is a mouth and the mouth is the thing he sees.

Then more lines. Below the circle, extending down — long, wide, the crayon pressing hard because the pressing is the thing that says the thing he is drawing is big. The lines go down and out and the out is the thing that says the thing is wide and the wide is the thing Kimo knows because the thing he is drawing is Lena. He is drawing his mother. The circle is her face and the lines are her body and the body is the thing that is 730 pounds and the 730 is the thing he is trying to put on paper with a red crayon and the trying is the thing that makes the lines heavy and the heavy is right.

He stops. He looks at it. He looks at Lena. He points at the paper with the crayon and the pointing is the thing he does when he wants to show what he made.

"Mama," he says.

Lena looks at the drawing and the drawing is red on yellow grid paper and the red is a circle with eyes and a nose and a mouth and lines going down and out and the lines are the thing that are her. The drawing is not good. The drawing is the thing a ten-month-old makes when the motor is chasing the idea and the motor is behind and the behind is the thing that makes the circle wobble and the eyes uneven and the body lines go where the hand takes them. But the drawing is her. The drawing is the thing Kimo sees when he looks at his mother — a face with eyes and a body that is big — and the seeing is the thing he put on paper and the putting is the thing that is the first drawing and the first drawing is of her.

She reaches for the paper and the reaching is the hand that pressed 630 this morning and the hand is gentle. She holds the paper and the holding is the thing that says the paper is the thing she will keep. She will put it on the balcony wall with the tape she uses for site notes and the tape will hold it and the holding is the thing that is the wall and the wall is the thing that is home.

"That's me," Lena says. "That's good, buddy. That's Mama."

Kimo takes the crayon back and puts it on the paper again. He is drawing something else. A second shape — smaller, beside the first. A circle. Two lines for eyes. Lines going down but shorter and the shorter is the thing that says the thing he is drawing is smaller. He is drawing himself beside her. He looks up.

"Me," he says. "Mama. Me."

The morning is on the balcony and the balcony is the floor that holds them both. Lena is 730 pounds against the railing and Kimo is 112 pounds at the plywood and the plywood holds the paper and the paper holds the red and the red holds a circle with eyes and a body that is big and a smaller circle beside it and the two circles are the thing that is them. The drawing is not good. The drawing is the thing that is true.