Quotes About Grief

Young widows still bide their time.

After my parents passed away - in 2000 and 2003 - I felt I could take the time to think about the past and imagine what it would have been like to be my grandmother.

Today is just another day of trying to get by without you.

Before she continued her search she sat in his revolving desk chair, and wept for the passing of time, and the necessary death of the well-loved, wise old man.

You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure, That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.

Grief came in waves, sometimes big, sometimes small, but even on the calmest days, the grief remained. The tide still came ashore.

If you've been hurt and you've grieved and you've been through the mill, it takes a long time to get over it.

Grief and memory go together. After someone dies, that's what you're left with. And the memories are so slippery yet so rich.

You are never truly together with one you love until the person in question is dead and actually inside you.

It will take mind and memory months and possibly years to gather together the details, and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss.

I get recognised a lot. If there are a load of school kids together, they'll shout at me, but I'm quite good at giving grief back. I give as good as I get.

But she felt an unexpected stab of loneliness. Teddy was not there. If she were to reach out to where he had always lain beside her, he would not be there. He would never be there again. Not ever or ever or ever.

If living were the right word. It had been a suspended life. She had worn black for Teddy inside and out. And somehow it had become a comfortable way of life. While part of her yearned for gaiety and a renewal of life, the other part clung to its cocoon. It was safer to remain inside it. It was less likely that she would have to experience again the pain of losing someone around whom her life had come to revolve.

Wept for the death of an ardent and immature love that had been unable to bring any comfort or peace to the beloved. And wept for the woman he had taken to wife with such high ideals—the woman who had just killed herself rather than face a final illness with only his arms to comfort her. Wept for his own frailty and infidelity. For his own humanness. He

They had told each other their stories, yet had failed to understand what had happened. And they had parted. It was all over. But why should that be? They had loved each other passionately six years before, had defied their families in order to marry, and had grieved for each other ever since. They loved and wanted each other now. Why should they be apart forever? Had they not suffered enough?

It is as well for him, he said, that he is already dead. He would suffer this night if he were still alive.

God, the light had gone out. He was in darkness.

She had lost all that was most precious in her life.

Soon she would know him only in memory. Soon she would lose him.

The urge to reach for him, to try to somehow soothe him for the loss of a mother years and years ago was almost irresistible.

Teddy. Diana floated on a cushion of fuzziness and wanted him. She wanted the terrible loneliness to go away. But Teddy was dead. He would never be there again.

I still miss him. There is a loneliness and an emptiness where he was.

Then I thought that once my year of mourning was over and I put off my blacks, I would also put off the worst of my grief. And perhaps that has happened. But sometimes I think that grief is preferable to emptiness. At least grief is something. I have come to realize, I suppose, that they are not just dead. They are gone. There is nothing there where they were.

Get angry, Elizabeth. Curse him. Yell. But don't keep on grieving like this. Please, love.