Quotes About Grief

But through it all I held Mrs. Pettibone's words in my heart-the ones she spoke to me after the funeral when she took my hand, looked into my face and said, "You've got your father's eyes.

You don't understand the power of loss when it first hits you like a baseball coming fast from an out-of-control pitcher....It's the third day after an injury when the pain really starts to throb.

I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.

I closed the box and put it in a closet. There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.

Anger is a symptom, a way of cloaking and expressing feelings too awful to experience directly -- hurt, bitterness, grief and, most of all, fear.

Marvin Gaye Music superstar Marvin Gaye was shot to death by his father. In court the father said, "This is probably the worst thing I've ever done." Probably??????

But woman's grief is like a summer storm, Short as it violent is.

Fuck you." Hunter (I decided not to call him Liam anymore—Liam was a nice name for a nice guy, and it didn't fit this bastard at all) glanced at his friend, then rubbed a hand over his face. For a minute he looked tired. Jackass. I was going to laugh at his funeral.

We should have a funeral," he said. Pan held his hands clasped in a tent on his lap, and he bowed his head. He seemed to be trying to recall something, and it was a long time before he finally said, "Our Father. Our Father. Our Father. Amen." Then he leaned back, and his face was blank again. He smiled, all white teeth. "There.

Sadness is only something that's part of you. Grief becomes you; it wraps you up and changes you and makes everything - every little thing - different than it was before.

I've made a discovery, and it's that grief isn't like sadness at all. Sadness is only something that's part of you. Grief becomes you, it wraps you up and changes you and makes everything--every little thing--different than it was before. I remember the me before we got the telegram saying he was gone, but it's like I'm remembering someone else. It feels like an earthquake has gone through me...

I guess people are right when they say that time helps grief. I don't agree that it heals, but maybe it wraps our losses up deeper and deeper inside so we can get on with being alive.

May fell onto her back, watching the zipping stars, which tonight were covered lightly in clouds, and feeling the darkest despair.

I can't take another parade where everything centers on the dead and we all act as though we may as well be dead too, even though we're not.

Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours. But grief comes from losing something you've already had.

In the English language there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parents who loses a child.

If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?

and he suddenly knew that if she killed herself, he would die. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen. You couldn't live for very long without a heart.

If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?

If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?

and he suddenly knew that if she killed herself, he would die. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it would happen. You couldn't live for very long without a heart.

How many times must hope die before tears were too deep to bear?

You carry on. That's what he'd always done. That's the task that comes with surviving, whether you deserve to live or not. You remember the dead as best you can. You say some words for them. Then you carry on, and you hope for better.

I thought of how she'd been at three, at six, at nine. No one warns you about the losses. No one tells you you'll miss them, those earlier children. They disappear, but are they still there, sealed one inside the next like those little wooden Russian dolls?