The maternity ward shares a floor with hospice. The fact of it struck hard yesterday when I was waiting for the elevator. I felt compelled to question a nurse, actually more like accuse her, as if she were responsible for the allocation of space. I can’t shake the density of what is unfolding on this one floor. The struggle to be born. The struggle to die. And the pain of it. I had read somewhere that being born feels like having five heart attacks back to back. As the outsider, you hold their hand. Offer them ice chips. And murmur your love in the growing silence. It’s a process. The pull of life. Away from inky darkness. Could be deep fuchsia. We don’t remember.