Isabel watched the train move away; she kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative child who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and made separation an occasion of violent hilarity, . .
This is exactly what it’s like saying goodbye to my sons, and I don’t think my sister would mind me adding, my nephews, too. It’s demonstrative. It’s dangerous. It’s violent. It’s hilarious.
It’s less “Goodbye” and more “Let’s not extend this visit any longer by adding a trip to the ER.”