Just the word, gathering, comforts me. It goes back to my childhood, when my sister taught me how to tug a running stitch gently, creating a ripple of folds that pull an expanse of fabric into a bodice, or ruffle. Don't yank, or the thread will break, and you are stuck starting over. Two and a half times, is what she said. That is the proportion of long, flat cloth to the finished piece it is sewn to. It seems extravagant, and yet the flounce depends on it. Anne Shirley knew as much, when she begged Marilla for puffed sleeves. The spinster was dubious about unnecessary frills, but Matthew understood that life is too dear to be frugal every day.

My daughter suggested a book called The Art of Gathering which I ordered. If a busy international college senior endorses taking time to read something, I listen. Aurelle knows I am partial to small clusters of people. As it happens, there will be just such a group in my home tonight, for the blessed cause of surrounding a pregnant woman with love. I am in charge of soup. A baker will gift us with pie. Each woman will contribute her words and presence, which it turns out is enough. Perhaps the collective word for mothers is a brood. I will sing "The Circle Game" and try not to cry. 

If there were a way to quantify the fondness of a circumference of women radiating around a friend who is heavy with child, two and a half sounds close. We will ruffle in, telling our own stories of birth, without pulling too hard on the parts about pain.