The plaque is brass. It’s very small. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking. It’s right under the little square window, where anybody lying in that bed can see it.
It says:
“THIS WINDOW WAS GIVEN IN 1973
FOR GRACE, FOR RUTH, AND FOR EVERY MOTHER
WHO NEEDED SOMETHING TO LOOK AT
BESIDES A WALL.”
Our daughter was born on April 19th.
Exactly fifty-two years to the day after my father.
Sarah went into labor on a rainy Tuesday morning, a little before seven. I don’t know if it was planned or if it was just God’s sense of humor. But I know where we went.
St. Andrew’s Medical Center. Twenty-eight miles away. Down Route 6, through the farm country, with the windshield wipers thumping.
Maternity is in the new wing now. The big glass one. Nobody has babies in Room 214 anymore. But when we checked in, the nurse at the front desk looked at the name on Sarah’s chart, and then she looked at me.
