I just finished reading a powerful middle-grade novel about grief called Love, Aubrey. I'm not going to review the plot here (you can see my goodread's review here), suffice it to say that I thought the book was a compelling and moving exploration of how someone can move through the grieving process and come out okay.
As usual, I stayed up later than I should have finishing the book. (Late meaning 11:30--Evelyn usually climbs into my bed promptly at 6:15 every morning).
What surprised me, was the overflowing of emotion I felt when I finished the book. For a while, I lay in my bed and just cried, until I realized I needed tissues and made my way to the bathroom. I wasn't crying for the book (though it had made me cry plenty). I was crying for the baby I lost in February, a loss I thought I had come to grips with and moved beyond until a book on grieving reminded me that I *do* sometimes feel a sense of loss (mostly for that personality that I won't ever--at least in this life (or maybe ever; our belief system is a little fuzzy on miscarriages) get to know). I wonder what kind of person that little boy would have grown up to be?
Sometimes, I think, catharsis is good for the soul. (Although not always for the mood--since I woke up this morning tired and puffy eyed!)