Quotes About Grief

And he would put his arms around her and hold her, but he had no idea what to tell her. In his mind, Gregor knew how to kill things, not bring them back ti life.

Do I really want him dead? What I want . . . what I want is to have him back. But I'll never get him back now. Even

What I want . . . what I want is to have him back.

No. I will never get him back. So then dead is best.

Sometimes when I'm alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena. To make myself put a name to the thing I've lost. But what's the use? It's gone. He's gone. Whatever existed between us is gone. All that's left is my promise to kill Snow. I tell myself this ten times a day.

What am I going to tell them about Twelve?" I ask Gale. "I doubt they'll ask for details. They saw it burn. They'll mostly be worried about how you're handling it." Gale touches my cheek. "Like I am.

My time in the arena made me realize how I needed to stop punishing her for something she couldn't help, specifically the crushing depression she fell into after my father's death. Because sometimes things happen to people and they're not equipped to deal with them.

Something happened when I was holding Rue's hand, watching the life drain out of her. Now I am determined to avenge her, to make her loss unforgettable, and I can only do that by winning and thereby making myself unforgettable.

His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

On my family: My mother buries her grief in her work.

No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field," he answers. "Snow had no one to use against me.

Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him.

Estimaves l'Annie, Finnick? —pregunto. —No —passa una bona estona abans no afegeix—: es va anar ficant dins meu.

My mother buries herself in her work. Having no work,grief buries me.

The whole world seems tilted, my inner ear displaced by a hole where my spouse used to be.

How can I grieve what is still in motion?" I ask her. "Shoes are still dropping all over the place. I´m not kidding," I say. "It´s Normandy out there.

The marriage is over; counseling is the eulogy. The relationship autopsy is the wake.

Much like trains in India, grief is a circular, irrational process with no discernible rhythm or timetable. Here it comes, there it goes.

This is much worse than losing a cat. You do not wish the cat dead, for example, after the first two days. You still love the cat and presumably the cat still loves you, or some variation of love that may in fact be dependence and even indifference.

Très, très, triste...

She didn't look up until he was gone. She saw him pas the outside wall of the pavilion and heard his footsteps recede into the stairwell. When he was gone, she bowed her head and let the grief engulf her. Her heart crumpled and shrank, like a ball of paper set on fire.

She'd been big on scrapbooking in her before life, never in life after James though. No one needed to record the utter grief and heartbreak so they could look back at it in years to come, just to relive those days when life couldn't possibly be any darker and the future looked an impossible fantasy

Grieving just didn't stop and come to an end. It was always there, just not so raw, not so painful and not so dominant

It somehow made her feel closer to him and she relished that connection but, of course, it also hurt like hell. And that was the thing about losing someone, the pain and grief suffocated the love and memories