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She loved his big thumb or his big ear. A big hair on his back that wagged when he became excited was loveable. Or his big, yellow foot, or his big chin or big forehead crease, or new parts growing in, one and then the other, hanging from inside his mouth when he yawned. Her boy had all these big parts. And she loved the parts when considered individually. Her boy had big, beautiful parts if you looked at one only. Just one part at a time, her boy was really loved and beautiful.
 But as the butcher could see, collectively, her boy was obscene.
He was only big, beautiful pieces of a boy. As a son, he was simply inordinate.
He needed to be pushed, she informed the butcher. That many big parts weren't meant to crowd together on a son. New parts were probably breaking in as they spoke. Collectively, her boy was an overhung little rack, that would topple when the butcher pushed him, and it was no way for a son to go on.
He ate like a horse, too, she said quietly, not wanting to wake her boy, who snored on a blanket inside a row of empty and half-empty plastic containers.
The butcher should go push him out the window. His mother certainly couldn't push him out again. She had labored to push him out once, at the hospital, which was a mistake, because her crotch had never healed right.
So if the butcher thought about it he was really pushing the son back in where he belonged, she said, pointing at a window. Inquisitive boys were drawn to heights and were always falling from windows, on the news.
Her and the butcher could stick to a story.
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