Quotes About Grief

There were times Ruma felt closer to her mother in death than she had in life, an intimacy born simply of thinking of her so often, of missing her. But she knew that this was an illusion, a mirage, and that the distance between them was now infinite, unyielding.

An Yi's grandma lay on a cart, silent under the white sheet. Her face was covered. It had been smashed in her fall, and of course they would not make a wax replacement for a suicide. Suicide was a crime. It was "alienating oneself from the people," according to what Chairman Mao said. So we were not in one of the private rooms. We wore no mourning bands. We could not play funeral music for Grandma.

I shut my eyes and pictured Grandma standing on the windowsill, looking down into the courtyard. What was she thinking before she jumped? She must have forgotten about her duties to her country, and her family too. Did she think about her granddaughter rushing back from Shandong for the funeral? Did she remember her blind sister? I wiped at my tears and took a deep breath.

What was she thinking before she jumped? She must have forgotten about her duties to her country, and her family too. Did she think about her granddaughter rushing back from Shandong for the funeral? Did she remember her blind sister? I

When you read about a car crash in which two or three youngsters are killed, do you pause to dwell on the amount of love and treasure and patience parents poured into bodies no longer suitable for open caskets?

Have you ever felt despair? Absolute hopelessness? Have you ever stood in the darkness and known, deep in your heart, in your spirit, that it was never, ever going to get better? That something had been lost, forever, and that it wasn't coming back?

When Theolyn died, the humans had built an enormous pyre and placed his body at the center. How was [Veka] supposed to know humans cremated their dead instead of cooking them? She had figured it out quickly enough, but not before Jimar and his ilk had spotted her standing at the pyre, fork in hand.

I have told you the story, and while I have been telling it, Robin - the biggest-hearted and the most faithful friend man ever had, has gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds, where I know I shall find him waiting for me.

There's solace in the thought that I will never finish missing her.

A hundred years ago no one was silent or tongue-tied, as we are now, when death was in the room. They had not yet muzzled grief or banished it from daily life. Death was cultivated, watered like a plant. There was no need for whispering or mime.

On Death and Dying, by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross.

It's something that this country hasn't had to deal with. But there's going to be a whole new generation that doesn't know their father. It's almost selfish of us to die. They train us as warriors. But they don't teach us how to take the pain away.

The child has the right to respect,' Ã¢â'¬Â he said. " Ã¢â'¬ËœThe child has the right to develop. The child has the right to be. The child has the right to grieve. The child has the right to learn. And the child has the right to make mistakes.' 

Jason's life was too short for his passing to cause many ripples.

Sirius: It's cruel that I got to spend so much time with James and Lily, and you so little. But know this; the ones that love us never really leave us. Dumbledore:Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. Ginny:"The thing about growing up with Fred and George [...] is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve."

As she lies in the bed she weeps, for Bing, for the melting, shimmering candles, the filigree on the holiday tablecloth. She is an unwilling astronaut, bumping against the thick glass of the ship, her line tangling lazily in zero gravity, face mask fogged with fear. My sister reaches across, over the bed, and we both embrace the mother, holding her on earth, pulling her onto the ship, breathing our oxygen into her line. Ten hours later she is dead.

On April 4, 1968, the same day that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, her favorite aunt, Matilda Rudolph, died in Clarksville.

I knew what death meant now. It was conversations cut off.

Good," I said. "And we will do the same. But I miss him. I miss him like I miss Mother. Of course we'll honor their memory, and of course their souls have gone on to new lives, but I hadn't finished talking to them in this life." I knew what death meant now. It was conversations cut off.

One thing I have learned about grief," I said to her, "is that nothing anyone says to you is useful, but it can still be comforting sometimes to know you're not alone

I can't talk about my childhood at all, because cannot say "I" when I mean "we," and if I say "we" it leads to a conversation about how I have a dead sister, instead of what I want to talk about. I found that out in the summer. So I don't talk about it.

Everyone was eating, talking softly, glancing at me, hugging me, eating. It was as if someone had turned the volume down. Everything looked normal, but the sound was muted. Death did this, set all this weirdness in motion, made people appear out of nowhere carrying casseroles, saying 'I'm sorry' over and over, death muffled their voices.

You cannot measure the loss of a human life. It's all the things a person was, all their dreams, all the people who loved them, all they hoped to be and could give back to the world.

Harrison wrote a two-page poem about his deep feelings of loss when his dog Filbert died, and Mrs. Minerva, the creative writing teacher, gave it a B-minus. Do you know what that does to a a person to get a B-minus in Grief?