She doesn’t give the baby another look and leaves the room on swift feet, passing the maternity ward and not stopping till she exits the swiveling doors and collapses in the spiky grass outside the horrid walls that reek of death, even around life. There are light pink peonies, like the baby's hat, growing out of a small patch near a hospital garden sign. A monarch butterfly flaps its wings and floats in front of her and a gentle breeze wipes the tears from her face with a soothing whisper. It’s cruel how beautiful it is. As if nature itself refused to give her another look, to even regard her pain with a gray cloud or drop of rain. The flowers would keep growing; the flowers would keep living.