Turn 222 of 233

Stay where we are without moving. Both of us have earned a day of relaxation. I weigh myself tomorrow morning. I am 925 pounds now of dense fat and muscle. Both of us are still unwashed since the day Kimo was born

The afternoon stretches into the long blue hour and the stretching is the thing that is the not-doing-anything. Lena has not moved from the concrete since morning except to shift her weight from her back to her side and back again, the 925 pounds of her redistributing across the balcony floor like a tide finding its level. The concrete is warm from the day's sun and the warmth is the thing that is the stored and the stored is the thing that is the radiating back into her body now that the air is cooling. She can feel the temperature differential — the heat below, the cool above, her body the membrane between. The membrane is the thing that is the alive.

Kimo has not moved either. He is on his back beside her, 372 pounds of two-and-a-half-year-old arranged in the starfish sprawl he sleeps in, one hand resting against her arm. The contact is the thing that is the not-intentional. The not-intentional is the thing that is the just-gravity. His hand fell there when he rolled and stayed there because staying is the thing that bodies do when they are not being told to move. His chest hums. The hum is the thing that is the always, even in the not-doing, even in the being.

Lena can smell both of them. The smell is the thing that is the accumulated — two years and one month of unwashed skin, of sweat dried and renewed and dried again, of the concrete's mineral dust ground into the calluses of their feet, of the site's sawdust and the kitchen's cooking oil and the sun's baking of skin that has never been scrubbed. The smell is not the thing that is the bad. The smell is the thing that is the them. It is the thing that is the layered. Each layer is a day. Each day is a thing that was lived. The lived is the thing that is the smell. She breathes it in and the breathing-in is the thing that is the not-gagging because the not-gagging is the thing that is the old-Lena-gone. This Lena does not gag at the smell of living.

A pigeon lands on the railing. The landing is the thing that is the claws-on-metal. Kimo opens one eye. The one-eye is the thing that is the looking without the sitting-up. The pigeon walks along the railing. The walking is the thing that is the ridiculous. Kimo watches it with the one eye and the watching is the thing that is the not-analyzing. He is not categorizing the pigeon. He is not connecting the pigeon to the evolutionary tree or the aerodynamics of flight or the urban ecosystem. He is just watching a pigeon. The just-watching is the thing that is the new. The new is the thing that is the rest.

The pigeon leaves. Kimo closes the eye. The closing is the thing that is the returning-to-the-being.

The stars come out. They come out the way they always come out over the city — not all at once, not the way they would over the ocean or the desert, but in pieces, the bright ones first, the city's light pollution eating the dim ones. Lena watches the bright ones appear. She does not name them. She does not connect them to constellations or mythology or the geology of the atmosphere that makes them twinkle. She watches them the way Kimo watched the pigeon. The just-watching is the thing that is the enough.

Sometime after midnight Kimo rolls into her. The rolling is not the thing that is the intentional. The rolling is the thing that is the 372-pounds-seeking-warmth. His body presses against her side — his back to her ribs, his head below her shoulder, his feet against her thigh. The pressing is the thing that is the fit. The fit is the thing that is the two-bodies-that-have-been-beside-each-other-for-thirty-one-months knowing the shape of each other the way water knows the shape of the ground. The knowing is not the thing that is the thought. The knowing is the thing that is the body.

Lena does not put her arm around him. She does not need to put her arm around him. The not-needing is the thing that is the contact-already-happening. His back is against her ribs. Her ribs are the thing that is the holding. The holding is the thing that is the not-arms. The not-arms is the thing that is the whole-body. The whole-body holding is the thing that is the under. The under is the thing that is the Mama.

She sleeps. The sleeping is the thing that is the deep. The deep is the thing that is the earned.