Quotes About Grief

My world began falling apart with the death of my sister, and hasn't stopped since. And it's not just my world that's in trouble; it's your world, too.

What no one tells you is that when someone you love dies, you lose them twice. Once to death, the second time to acceptance, and you don't walk that long, dark passage between the two alone. Grief takes every shuffling, unwilling step with you, offering a seductive bouquet of memories that can only blossom south of sanity. You can stay there, nose buried in the petals of the past. But you're never really alive again. Spend enough time with ghosts, you become one.

Some people—who haven't lost someone they love unconditionally and more than themselves—think a year is plenty of time to get over the trauma of their death and you should have fully moved on. Fuck you, it's not.

grief's drink recipe is two parts tribute to the person you loved and four parts feeling sorry for yourself because you lost them.

Justice and revenge had been only part of my motivation for leaving Ashford. I'd run from my grief, from their pain, from being a shadow of another person, better loved for bitterly lost, and Ireland hadn't been nearly far enough.

Still, you'd lose them again, one way or another, because they were meant to be dead.

Don't accuse me of being morbid when I'm merely the product of a culture that buries the bones of the ones they love in pretty, manicured flower gardens so they can keep them nearby and go talk to them whenever they feel troubled or depressed. That's morbid. Not to mention bizarre. Dogs bury bones, too.

How many fucking people do you think I've watched die?" His silver eyes flashed crimson. "Over and over. That's what you do. You love them while you have them and when they're gone, you grieve. That's life. At least you had them for a while.

Raging anger and profound aching grief tend to make one act out of sorts.

Work was one of the reasons I wasn't paying enough attention when Sally died. I hadn't taken parenting classes. I hadn't had enough experience. I didn't realize a dad has to be there as much as a mom, for all the everyday things as well as the birthday parties. My ignorance cost us our child.

Granana doesn't understand what the big deal is. She didn't cry at Olivia's funeral, and I doubt she even remembers Olivia's name. Granana lost, like, ninety-two million kids in childbirth. All of her brothers died in the war. She survived the Depression by stealing radish bulbs from her neighbors' garden, and fishing the elms for pigeons. Dad likes to remind us of this in a grave voice, as if it explained her jaundiced pitilessness: "Boys. Your grandmother ate pigeons.

Somethings you know right away to be final- when you lose your last baby tooth...Other times, you have to work out the milestone via subtraction, a math you do to assign significance, like when I figured out that I'd just blown through my last-ever wednesday with Mom on the day after she died.

I had to explain to him Mom's death, which was always hard to do. It felt like killing her again.

At ten, I couldn't articulate much but I got the message: to be a true historian, you had to mourn amply and well. (spoken by narrator Ava Bigtree in Swamplandia!)

Mr. Oamaru has taught me that loss isn't just limited to the present; it can happen in any direction. Even what's done and vanished can be taken from you. Other, earlier memories that we made of my father sink and revert to water

She's dead. She's dead.

Any place, then, can become a cemetery. All it takes is your body. It's not fair, I think, and I get this petulant wish for ugly flowers and mourners, my mother's old familiar grief. Somebody I love to tend my future grave. Probably this is the wrong thing to be wishing for.

If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk back up to Heaven and bring you home again.

She sobbed for the loss of her father, for his words of wisdom, for his constancy, and for the little girl at his knee she could never be again.

I reached for Helen's hand, and felt her squeeze back, accepting that I would understand more than most the missing part of the human heart rendered by the absence of a mother and father.

But bad news came at night, as if the sun were already in mourning.

Grief was like that, Ceecee had learned. It either opened your heart or closed it.

For it is the bitter grief of theology and its blessed task, too, always to have to seek (because it does not clearly have present to it at the time)...always providing that one has the courage to ask questions, to be dissatisfied, to think with the mind and heart one ACTUALLY has, and not with the mind and heart one is SUPPOSED TO have.

One day beside some flowers near his noseHe will be thinking, When will I look at it?And pain, still in the middle distance, will replyAt what? and he will know it's gone,O where! and begin to tremble and cry.He will begin to cry as a child criesWhose puppy is mangled under a screaming wheel.