Charlie and I sit on a rocking chair disguised new by a coat of white paint. It has begun to betray itself, for one of many shades of white push through the peeled spots, but it still functions as a maternity tool. We rock in time to the rhythm of the NICU. Beeps and boops, call bells, alarm bells, and doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles. Around us, three new babies are admitted; two a set of twins born at 24 weeks. At first my heart goes out to them but then I am only concerned with how their arrival will affect my evening visit. Across from us a Nurse explains a baby's condition to her mom but it's hard to eavesdrop because I only took college level Spanish at Ocean County Community College with my sister Beth, where we were only concerned with what kind of flavored coffee mate they might have in the cafeteria that day. On second thought, I doubt we missed the chapter on medical terminology. In front of us passes Nori's neighbor being wheeled out for kidney surgery; I try to make only brief eye contact with his parents for fear that my smile may not be reassuring enough. Behind us, I can hear Nori's nurse prepare blood for a pick-me-up transfusion. I realize that the nurse has strategically positioned our chair so that I have my back to her and Nori. So, Charlie and I rock back and forth. He is only concerned with my heartbeat, so I focus on him and he reassures me that everything is going to be okay.