I guess that’s why I like it so much. Not even the ER reveals so much humanity as a maternity ward. The serengeti hunter of millennia past appears in the raw as one generation groans in the birthpangs of the next.

                                            *

            The father looked at his feet, a slight wrinkle in his brows, as he struggled to interpret the past hours, processing the adrenaline lingering in his veins.

            “Uh… should I…” he cast around the room, “I feel like I should…”

            “It’s okay,” I smiled, straightening a crease in my scrubs. “They’re fine, they just need sleep.”

            He extended a hand gingerly. The swaddled bundle stirred on the mother’s chest.

            “Uh…” his eyes flitted toward me then back to the floor. Some serengeti instinct roused deep in his muscles: he shifted. He must have been an awkward man, but then, most men are awkward on a maternity ward. So, I  thought, at least it’s not out of place here.

            “Can, uh, can I help with anything? I mean, I feel like throughout the, uh, thing, I didn’t do…”

            I shook my head. “It’s really okay. Just relax. Baby’s latched and both she and Mama need sleep.”

            He shifted.

            “It was a long night, you could try getting some sleep too…” but I knew he wouldn’t. They almost never did. He pulled the chair closer to the bed so that he sat almost over top of the little swaddle. No bird of prey could swoop down,  no jackal steal upon his exhausted charges.

            “Hmmmm….” I said in false revelation, “they’ll have to wake up soon to feed. I bet Mama would love something to eat.”

            The father looked up, eyes glittering.

            “There’s bread and peanut butter in the kitchenette,” I motioned down the corridor.

            He hesitated, half standing.

            “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them and call if anything happens. You’ll be within earshot.”

            He finished rising. Even on the well lit ward it was hard not to imagine a spear in his hand. As he slipped out the door another nurse entered.

            “It’s your break,” she said.

            I reviewed the charts, washed my hands, and strode down the corridor. The father stood in the kitchenette with the other serengeti hunters, regaling one another with harrowing tales of the new life they’d begotten. Around the hunters’ hearth, they processed their humanity.