Yesterday's memorial for Baby P was hard, but beautiful. Bethany has spoken better about it than I can, but she is a writer, after all - at least, a more practiced one than I.
I wasn't going to go; I'd only met C once before. But she wrote something in sympathy for my miscarriage that helped the most of what anyone said, and so I felt that I should be there, to lend what support my presence would bring. C said she was glad I came.
I was glad I went: I got to cry. I hadn't yet been able to cry for my own loss; I can't when I'm on duty, and a mom with a toddler is always on duty. So I left the Infanta at home, and joined this amazing community in mourning. And I cried. I cried for Baby P; I cried for C, and for her family; I cried for me, and I cried for my own babe-not-to-be. I'm still very sad today, and weepy here and there. I keep remembering what one of the speakers said: that in the midst of everything else, there is still love. There is always love. And the remembrance makes me want to cry more, but because the thought helps me release my grief, not because it makes me more upset.
There is still love.