I nearly missed it this year. Not that I didn’t know what day it was or tweet about it or appreciate those who were remembering Lorenzo. Not that October 15 has anything to do with him other than it being Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Not that I don’t remember two losses when I see those five words.

Last year, I posted about it and offered some suggestions for how to help someone who had to let a dream and so much more go. This year, I also remember those who have come after me. Just since January, two late-term stillbirths, two fetal anomalies incompatible with life, several miscarriages, IVF that didn’t take. Meanwhile, twelve healthy babies were born, including my daughter. And I have ten friends who are currently pregnant and thriving. The happy stories still outnumber the losses. But the losses still matter. I am honored that I have been trusted with many of them because I have trusted many with Lorenzo.

This year, I was busy, too. H. had music and gym. She did her first hand stand! Ryan worked late. It was oddly humid. At 7 PM, when it was time to light a remembrance candle, H. and I were swaying to the pop music playing in a Korean BBQ restaurant, waiting for a to-go order. It wasn’t until most of the day was closed that I uploaded a batch of new hearts for Lorenzo (we are nearing 3,000!) and read essays like “Wish You Were Here.” Amazingly, I received an email from a mom who made the same choice we did for her son who had the same diagnosis during the same summer. A piece about the day had led hers to one of mine and she reached out across the loss to connect. While I had been trying to get to Lorenzo, he had gone ahead and found me.

But I couldn’t write this all into a post, the memoir didn’t get revised. Ryan and I didn’t take Ruby to a dog park as was our ritual down in Santiago. A candle never got lit. They are all somewhere in a box in the basement though I keep reminding myself that we might soon need them. We live somewhere now where a storm could come in and the power could go out, where I keep hearing it’s supposed to be another rough winter after this stunning year of chasing summer.

October 15 was in many ways just another Wednesday. And that’s OK. It consisted of experiencing joy with my daughter while remembering my son. He isn’t just missing on October 15, after all. So here we are on October 25, here H. is asleep in the carrier as I type this, her deep, easy breathing hot on my neck. Outside, fading leaves float to the ground. Sometimes one—just one out of all that rustle—will stick to my car door window or to the hood of the stroller or to the doormat inside the house and I’ll think, There’s Lorenzo. I sit and read essays sent my way recently, namely “Grief Is Not Broken” and “Denied,” and the recognition makes my eyes go tight. Words actually do help although that is one of the things you’ll hear the most… “There are no words.”

Of course there are.

For this year, that is what I’ll offer and do myself. To share something about what someone else is suffering, confronting, surviving, or accepting. In order to run our fingers along the edge of it. To ask a question. To try to find those words. It doesn’t have to be a certain day to remember. It can be any day at all.