We stood. We cheered. We shouted and stomped and (eventually) marched. I got lost when I wandered off in search of a porta-potty, thinking, Oh, I'm not an idiot, I'll find my way back again, but I never did. I was swallowed up by the Women of Washington and that was that. I met up with my group again seven hours later, back at the hotel.
The mood in the air was angry but not bitter—more bright and proud and insistent, more refusing to be denied—loud but notably polite. It was a family-friendly affair with occasional salty language. Kids gotta learn it somewhere.
On the train back to Falls Church I sat between two silver-haired lesbians who talked about how long they had been with their partners (in both cases, 20+ years), and how it had felt to finally get married, how they had never believed it would happen.
At dinner we sat next to two women who had driven down from Vermont with their teenage daughters so those teenage daughters could know that it mattered. So they could see that people cared enough to show up for each other.
It was a necessary day that burned off any lingering despair, an outraged and heartening start to the thousands and thousands of steps that come next.