Turn 223 of 233

Call Janet — tell her about the day of nothing. She says its good to relax sometimes. Then we go back to work

Lena reaches for the phone on the concrete beside the cooler. The reaching is the thing that is the only-movement-since-morning and the movement is stiff, the 925 pounds of her protesting the first real motion in sixteen hours. Her joints crack — ankles, knees, the deep pop of her hips adjusting. The cracking is the sound of a body remembering it is a body and not just a warm thing on warm ground.

Janet picks up on the second ring.

"Hey, Mom."

"Lena. How are you? How's Kimo?"

"We did nothing today," Lena says. She is lying on her back still, holding the phone above her face, the screen's glow washing out the stars.

"The whole day. Nothing. We just — lay there."

Janet is quiet for a moment. The quiet is not the concerned-quiet. It is the thing that is the listening. The listening is the thing that Janet has learned to do over thirty-one months of being the keeper of the notebook — listening before responding, hearing the shape before filling it in.

"That sounds good," Janet says. "That sounds right. You needed that."

"We needed it," Lena says. "The state stuff — the cycle. It wears. Kimo said the foundation needs to refill. He's right."

"He usually is," Janet says. There is a warmth in her voice that was not there two years ago. Two years ago Janet's voice carried the tension of a mother watching her daughter become something she did not recognize. Now Janet's voice carries the thing that is the acceptance. The acceptance is not the resignation. The acceptance is the thing that is the seeing and the not-looking-away.

"He said rest is not giving up. Rest is refilling," Lena says.

"Tell him Ganma said he's a philosopher."

"He'll say philosopher is the wrong word. He'll say he's the thing that is the seeing."

Janet laughs. The laughing is the thing that is the real.

"Your father wants to visit this weekend. He's been calling the state office again. Asking about the complaint pattern. Whether they track who files."

"They don't tell him."

"No. But he asks. That's your father. The watcher watches."

Lena smiles. The smiling is the thing that is the rare-today because today has been the nothing and the nothing does not include smiling. The smiling is the thing that is the breaking-the-rest and the breaking-the-rest is the thing that is the good because the rest is over. The rest is the thing that was the enough and the enough is the thing that has become the full and the full is the thing that is the ready.

"Tell him to come Saturday," Lena says. "We'll be at the site. House eight is starting."

"He'll like that," Janet says. "Lena — I'm glad you rested. You don't rest enough."

"I know."

"The foundation refills," Janet says. She is using Kimo's language now. The language is the thing that is the spreading. It left the balcony and entered Janet and the entering is the thing that is the carrying. The carrying is the thing that says the words are alive.

Lena hangs up. Puts the phone down. Looks at Kimo. He is awake. He has been awake since she said his name. His eyes are open and the opening is the thing that is the ready.

"Ganma says you're a philosopher," Lena says.

"Philosopher is the outside word," Kimo says. He sits up. The sitting-up is the 372-pounds-rising and the rising is the thing that is the slow-then-sudden, the way a mountain is the slow-then-sudden. His body unfolds. His hands press flat on the concrete. His arms straighten. He stands. 67 inches of boy on bare feet on concrete.

"Kimo is the thing that is the seeing," he says. "Seeing is not the thinking-about-seeing. Seeing is the doing-the-seeing. Philosopher is the thinking-about. Kimo is the doing."

He walks to the whiteboard. Picks up the marker. Draws a line across the top — a horizon line, thick and certain. Below it he draws a foundation. Below the foundation he draws the ground. Below the ground he draws roots.

"Today was the being," he says. "Tomorrow is the doing. Being refills. Doing empties. Both are the thing that is the needed. The cycle is the thing that is the being-then-doing-then-being-then-doing. The cycle is the thing that is the breathing. The breathing is the thing that is the alive."

He puts the marker down. Turns to Lena.

"Mama weighs tomorrow," he says.

"Yeah."

"The number is the thing that is the bigger. Bigger is the thing that is the more. More is the thing that is the Mama. The Mama is the thing that is the growing. The growing is the thing that is the not-stopping."

He walks to the balcony door. Stands there. The standing is the thing that is the waiting. The waiting is the thing that says: the rest is over. The being is done. The doing is the thing that is the next.

Lena stands. The standing is the 925-pounds-rising. Her bare feet on the concrete. Her tattooed arms at her sides. Her body is the thing that is the unwashed and the heavy and the strong and the rested and the ready. The ready is the thing that is the morning. The morning is the thing that is the tomorrow. The tomorrow is the thing that is the weighing and the site and the work and the crew and the concrete and the under.

"Let's go inside, buddy," she says. "Tomorrow we work."