Turn 211 of 233

We check on Vaea and Sina. Vaea is feeling better now. So does Kimo. All 4 cousins start playing together

Lena crosses the yard to Sina, who is sitting on the back step with Vaea in her lap. The girl's crying has stopped. The hiccupping is the last thing left — the aftershock, the body's way of letting go of a pain that already passed. Sina's hand is under Vaea's chin, tilting her face up to check the lip. The lip is split — not deep, not the kind that needs stitches, but the kind that bleeds more than it hurts because lips are the thing that is the full of blood.

"She's okay," Sina says. She looks up at Lena and the looking is the thing that is the relieved.

"It's the root. I keep telling myself I'll dig it out."

"I'll dig it out," Lena says.

"You'll dig it out with what? Your hands?"

"My hands work."

Sina almost smiles. Almost. The almost is the thing that is the still-worried because Vaea's lip is still bleeding and the bleeding is the thing that keeps a mother's chest tight even when the brain says fine.

Vaea looks at Lena. She is three and three is the thing that is the still-small and the still-small is the thing that looks at 790 pounds of tattooed, naked, barefoot woman and does not see the thing that adults see. She sees Auntie Lena. She sees big. She sees safe.

"Kimo crying," Vaea says. Her voice is the thing that is the small and the small is the thing that is the still-hiccupping.

"Yeah, buddy," Lena says. "Kimo was crying because you were hurt. He felt it."

"Kimo big," Vaea says. "Big cry."

Behind them Kimo is standing. The standing is the thing that is the wobbly because the wobbly is the thing that is the after-the-feeling. His eyes are dry now — the dry is the thing that came when Vaea's breathing steadied, as if his body took its cue from hers, as if the bridge runs both directions. He walks across the yard. Not running. Walking. The walking is the thing that is the slow because the slow is the thing that is the not-yet-sure.

"Vaea okay?" Kimo says. His voice is back. Not the small voice. The Kimo voice. But quieter. The quieter is the thing that is the residue.

"Vaea okay," Sina says. "Lip hurts a little. But okay."

Kimo looks at the lip. He looks at the blood on Sina's hand. His chest does the thing — the tight thing, the brief thing — and then it lets go. The letting go is the thing that is the new skill. He just learned it. He just learned that feeling someone else's pain does not mean keeping it. He just learned that the bridge carries feeling both ways and the letting-go is the thing that comes back when the other person is okay.

"Okay," he says. "Good."

He stands there for a moment. The moment is the thing that is the three seconds. Then Vaea slides off Sina's lap and the sliding is the thing that is the back to the ground and the ground is the thing that is the grass and the grass is the thing that says play.

"Kimo play?" Vaea says.

"Kimo play," Kimo says.

The seven-year-old comes out of the bungalow. His name is Tane and he is the thing that is the holding a block tower in one hand and the other hand is the thing that is the looking for a place to set it down. The ten-year-old follows — Lani, Sina's oldest, hair in two braids, a book under her arm. She sets the book on the porch rail and the setting is the thing that is the choosing play over reading because the reading is the thing that can wait and the play is the thing that is the now.

Four children in the yard. Vaea is three and 28 pounds. Tane is seven and 55 pounds. Lani is ten and 72 pounds. Kimo is seventeen months and 206 pounds. The ratios are the thing that is the absurd and the absurd is the thing that is the not-noticed because the children are the thing that is the not-noticing. They do not see size the way adults see size. They see age. Vaea is three. Tane is seven. Lani is ten. Kimo is — Kimo. Kimo is the thing that is the Kimo.

They build something. The building is the thing that starts with Tane's block tower and becomes the thing that is the larger. Lani brings blocks. Vaea carries one block back and forth, never setting it down, because the carrying is the thing that is the play for a three-year-old. Kimo kneels on the grass and the kneeling is the thing that is the 206 pounds on two knees and he begins stacking blocks into the thing that is the pattern — not the stacking of a toddler but the stacking of an engineer. The blocks become a structure. The structure has the thing that is the load-bearing walls. The walls have the thing that is the right spacing.

"That's a house," Tane says.

"That's four houses," Lani says. "Connected."

"Bridge," Kimo says. He points to the block span between two structures.

"Bridge connects. Bridge is the thing that is the between. Between is the important part. Between is where the going happens."

Vaea puts her block on top of Kimo's structure. The block is crooked. The structure wobbles. Kimo steadies it with one hand — the hand is the thing that is the gentle, the 206 pounds' hand moving with the care of someone who just learned that other people's pain is his pain and the learning is the thing that is the fresh.

"Careful," he says to Vaea. His voice is the thing that is the soft.

"Walls fall if blocks are crooked. Crooked is not matching. Matching is the good."

Vaea looks at him. She does not understand matching. She does not understand crooked. She understands Kimo's voice and the voice is the thing that is the safe and the safe is the thing that makes her adjust the block. The block goes straight. The structure holds.

On the porch, Janet is writing. The pen is the thing that is the moving again. Samuel is in his chair and the chair is the thing that holds him and he is watching. But the watching is the thing that is the different now. The watching is the thing that has the wet behind it — the wet from earlier, the wet that is the thing that came when Kimo cried for Vaea. The wet is the thing that is the still there, drying. Samuel's face is the thing that is the not-stone. The not-stone is the thing that is the new.

Sina stands beside Lena. Two women in the yard — one 790 pounds and tattooed and naked, one naked and barefoot and carrying laundry. They watch four children play in the grass.

"He felt it," Sina says. Her voice is the thing that is the quiet.

"He actually felt it."

"Yeah," Lena says. "First time."

"Aleki was like that," Sina says. "Not the same — Aleki didn't have the words. But he felt people. He'd walk into a room and know who was hurting before they said anything. Kimo has that. But Kimo has the words too. Kimo has the words and the feeling. That's — Lena, that's something."

The children play. The sun is the thing that is the moving toward the late afternoon. The shadows are the thing that is the long. The grass is the thing that is the green. Four cousins in a yard in Gainesville, building a city out of blocks, and the city is the thing that is the connected — four houses and bridges between them and the bridges are the thing that is the between and the between is the thing that is the important part.