Quotes About Grief

It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' working it off; and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree.

My dad passed away...and suddenly I found myself at the top of the tree and looking at the sky instead of at my mom and dad.

Whether we knew many who died on September 11 or personally knew none, we all lost something on that day. Innocence. Security. A trust that our homeland would always be safe.

For my boyhood's friend hath fallen, the pillar of my trust, The true, the wise, the beautiful, is sleeping in the dust.

The most hateful grief of all human griefs is to have knowledge of a truth, but no power over the event.

And no matter what anybody says about grief and about time healing all wounds, the truth is, there are certain sorrows that never fade away until the heart stops beating and the last breath is taken.

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is not. ~ Henry van Dyke

Everyone I have lost in the closing of a door the click of the lock is not forgotten, they do not die but remain within the soft edges of the earth, the ash of house fires and cancer in sin and forgiveness huddled under old blankets dreaming their way into my hands, my heart closing tight like fists. - "Indian Boy Love Song #1

My sisters have been baptized and my dad is a deacon at his church now. Sadly my mother passed away but what I can say is that the Jehovah Witnesses took very good care of her up until she died.

when an old man dies, no matter how well loved he is, it is easier to accept: death has been in the wings for a while. But when a young man perishes unexpectedly, his devoted wife, who has had every expectation of many more happy years together, suddenly finds herself profoundly alone-- and descends into a powerful grief that lasts for years upon years.

Some men's deaths left little besides unfulfilled obligations and the inconvenience of a corpse. The departure of others tore holes in the hearts of those who were fortunate enough to know them.

The man should be dead. He had been beheaded years ago, hadn't he? She wiped the rain from her eyes. But he was still there, the murderer of her child. He was still there.

Her name is Vera. The Lady Vera Drake. And I never said she died; I said we lost her." Utter silence. "Do you understand now, Mr. Somerset?" "My God, do you mean to tell me that—that—" "Yes," said the dowager duchess.

When we mourn, it should be the loss of love that makes us grieve, not the guilt that we did something wrong.

To be human is to struggle. Eventually we realize that when we sit under the umbrella of "shoulds" — "This shouldn't be so hard. I should be happy." — the pain rains down harder. But when we accept the fact that anxiety, depression, loneliness, powerlessness, grief, joy, and exhilaration are all part of the design, we step out into the rain and perhaps even dance a little.

My solo album is dead and buried. We had the funeral. It was sad and I cried a lot but it made such a beautiful corpse that we had an open casket.

The shivering that had started six weeks before has turned into violent paroxysms. Let go, child, I whisper to her, as she drools bile and saliva, as her body rattles so hard I hear the emptiness inside. I want her to die; I want the decision not to be mine.

Till you experience it, you think that grief is one emotion. It isn't; it is many emotions packaged into one. It's like standing at the top of a tall building and having the floor fall out.

To the woman in the restaurant today, the doll in her arms was the real child who still lived in her memories.

There was something ironic about that. Amma comforting Chithra Aunty. Yet I understood it. Chithra Aunty was free to cry. We couldn't, for if we started we would never stop.

Keiner weinte hier. Sie hatten begriffen, dass die Erwartung von Trost einen schwächer macht, empfänglicher für Bosheit.

It's the damnedest thing: The dead abandon you; then, with the passage of time, you abandon the dead.

Grief is not a record of what has been lost but of who has been loved. In the end, we weep not only for the death of someone but for the startling question that faces us: what shall we do with the love we have for the deceased? Where will we put it?

A tiny bit of myself is lost when my friends are gone. A tiny bit of myself was lost when my brothers, all but one, passed away.