Generations ago the women who stood close to death were part of how we all saw ourselves. They presided over births, deaths, weddings, the digging of new foundations. They watched as death roamed farther and closer, and lent help where they could, knowledge where it was actionable, solace where it was palatable.

We think ourselves so removed, now. Safe in bubbles of technology and isolation and security and noise. How safe are you really? Blinded as I am by modern anxieties and frailties I can’t see death on its paths, but I can feel it as it waxes and wanes. We are not so far from it now. How do you know the next bar fight won’t be your last? How do you know the furnace isn’t spitting out invisible, odorless death? How do you know that I won’t turn the ignition the next time you’re pumping gas into the tank?