It has lived by the front door for years. It does not get unpacked between births, because there is no point: the next call is coming, and it will come at 3am. Nobody outside the work knows this. Everybody inside it knows it immediately. This is that bag, cut from warm paper and standing in a doorway: a crescent through a torn window opening, a mug of tea somebody started and did not finish, the whole room hand-torn from warm paper. Underneath, small and quiet, stated as a plain fact rather than a punchline: THE BAG BY THE DOOR. No pun on the word doula. No explanation. If you know, you knew before you finished reading it.
Soft and cozy with a hood for the 3am call, offered in a range of light shades.
For the doula who trained you, for the midwife you call at 2am, or for the certification cohort who already know exactly what this means. It is the gift that proves whoever gave it has actually been paying attention.
The bag stays packed. That's the job.
