For some reason, as our babies’ birthday approaches I have been thinking a lot about one of my crazy, random memories from last year. After our loss, it took me a few weeks to go back to the nursing home for one of my afternoon visits. I was nervous about going back. They had all been so excited about the twins, feeling my tummy and asking the same questions over and over. I kind of hoped that they wouldn’t remember that I had been pregnant. Some of them did. I went to visit one of my friends, down on the lower level. As soon as she saw me she threw out her arms and enveloped me in one of her hugs. All she did was hold me very tight and cry out, “Oh, Oh!” Better than words, her cries echoed the misery in my heart.

And then she told me that she had lost a baby when she was young. With those few words she bridged the gap of generations, speaking to me mother to mother and giving me permission to grieve as long as it hurt. 50 some years had past since her tragedy and she was still hurting.

Why is it that those moments with her are still comforting to me nearly a year later? Maybe because it does still hurt – a lot. And sometimes it hurts all over again – a fresh wound where a scar is trying to form. I love that precious old woman for looking back at me, over the chasm of so many years and bearing witness to a mother’s pain – not with words that often fail but with cries and tears.