Quotes About Grief

Modern anxiety is expressed in the longing for what most people fear, even as modern grief is expressed in the unconsummated mourning for what they never really had.

I want to know what's wrong with loving someone for life? Even when they're dead? What exactly is wrong with that? Why should I put him away, out of my mind? Like he's out of fashion. Does no one love for ever any more? Is no one built for the long road?

Anya: I don't understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's- There's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore. It's stupid. It's mortal and stupid. And-and Xander's crying and not talking, and-and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well, Joyce will never have any more fruit punch ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.

That wouldn't be a first, now would it? Jean. Jean Grey is dead, Agent. Yeah, that'll last.

Here's a story of a girl Who grew up lost and lonely Thinking love was fairy tale And trouble was made only for me Even in the darkness every color can be found And every day of rain brings Water flowing To things growing in the ground Grief replaced with pity For a city barely coping Dreams are easy to achieve If hope is all I'm hoping to be Any time you're hurt There's one who has it worse around And every drop of rain will keep you growing Seeds you're sowing in the ground

I never got to wash my mother's body when she died. I return to take care of her in memory. That's how I make peace when things are left undone.

You're gone now, and I'm still in this predicament called living, Charlie. I imagine things don't change much when you cross the line. You're still you. And I'm still here at the other end of this long, long wave, listening.

I will see you again , is one of the names for blue-- A color beyond the human sky of mind-- One third up the ladder of blue is where we sit for grief--

Some things on this earth are unspeakable: Genealogy of the broken— A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre, Or the smell of coffee and no one there—

The person you love best, you share the world with. When that person's gone the world remains but it isn't the same thing, it's at a distance.

Impossible not to imagine the dead observing us. Our love for them a soft, shimmering gossamar that trails behind us.

Bullshit! Li-ar! Your mother and father are dead like everybody else. Everybody is dead.

That I was sleeping at a time when my husband was dying is so horrible a thought, I can't confront it.

On the way home Mary Lou said, Some things are so sad you can't say them. But I pretended not to hear.

For the widow inhabits a tale not of her own telling.

Loving our parents, we bring them into us. They inhabit us. For a long time I believed that I could not bear to live without Mom and Dad—I could not bear to "outlive" them—for to be a daughter without parents did not seem possible to me.

Still, I am angry with him. I am very angry with him. With my poor dead defenseless husband, I am furious as I was rarely—perhaps never—furious with him, in life. How can I forgive you, you've ruined both our lives.

Silence rolled at me, in waves. They are all dead, and you are free. And you are blameless.

Marianne's face was streaked with tears that glistened like acid and her skin was drained of color and she could not bring herself to look at Dr. Oakley behind his desk, nor at Corrine.

A woman who has lost her husband is invalid, thus an invalid. In

It is the most horrific thought—my husband died among strangers.

All your life, you yearn to return to what has been. You yearn to return to those you have lost. You will do terrible things to return, which no one else can understand.

Y después el sollozo. Otra vez el llanto suave pero agudo, y la pena haciendo retroceder su cuerpo. —Han matado a tu padre. —¿Y a ti quién te mató, madre?

En febrero, cuando las mañanas estaban llenas de viento, de gorriones y de luz azul. Me acuerdo. Mi madre murió entonces. Que yo debía haber gritado: que mis manos tenían que haberse hecho pedazos estrujando su desesperación. Así hubieras tú querido que fuera. ¿Pero acaso no era alegre aquella mañana?