Legos

I call down to ask whether Tucker is hungry yet and hear: I gotta keep working on something I was up to, his voice all italics, his fingers snapping bricks together in new ways.
Our home is littered with half-built hospitals and helicopters, discarded doors and wheels and propellors, tiny pieces that have hurt feet for decades.  He leaves a trail of small plastic structures from the basement to the second floor, a five year old's calling card.