It’s something about the sight of her son running down the hallway in their new home while his t-shirt, bright white, reflects the young curves of his face. And all the train tracks he will lay are taking shape in his mind, in all the spaces where he’ll grow and play as though the brightness of his t-shirt, of the day itself, will never fade and even if it did, they would survive.

It’s something about the possibilities of the layouts that he’ll make, finding links as he crawls around. And she’ll do the voices as she sits with him, as he scuffs his knees and laughs at the trains.

And outside now it’s something about the relentless sunlight on the spears of bamboo that need chopping down, the places where time wouldn’t stop. And every leaf waves at her like the rippled pages of a memory book, photos flipping past her face, brushing her cheeks from when the garden was primed for adventures and her son beamed as he burst through the door. 

The hallway. Four o’clock. And he gave it a ‘ten thumbs up.’

It’s something about the chaos of packing boxes and the vibrant verve of a new start. That. His face. The loud tearing of gaffer tape and starting out again.

She learned to be good at that.

It’s something about her.