Quotes About Grief

Grief had become her silent sidekick. She felt its shadow beside her all the time.

Her father was dying. Nothing could change that. Words were like pennies, fallen into corners and down the cracks, not worth the effort of collecting.

People left, and if you loved too deeply, too fiercely, their swift and sudden absence could chill you to the soul.

Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not; rather find strength in what remains behind. —WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ODE:

A daughter without her mother is a woman broken. It is a loss that turns to arthritis and settles deep in her bones. This I know now.

Lost. It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they don't belong and then turned away, too confused to retrace my steps. They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

What will we be without him?" Meredith whispered, clinging to her. "Less," was all Nina could think of to say.

Love had turned into loss and she'd pushed it away, but somehow, impossibly, a bit of that love had remained. A girl's love for her father. Immutable. Unbearable but unbreakable.

They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

It didn't matter how you lost a parent or how great or shitty that parent was, a kid grieved forever.

Mama takes Vera in her arms, holding her so hard that neither can breathe. There is only silence between them; in that silence, memories pass back and forth like dye in water, moving and fluid, and when they pull back and look at each other, Vera understands. They will not speak of Olga again, not for a long time, not until the sharp pain rounds into something that can be handled.

Nina lowered the camera slowly, feeling naked suddenly, vulnerable. Without that thin layer of a glass lens, she was here instead of there, looking at her father, who was dying.

her daughter was here, with her, inside of her. She'd always been here, even when Jude was too broken to look for her. But it was time now to say, "Good-bye, baby Ã¢â'¬Â¦ I love you." For the first time in years, she believed that her daughter could hear her.

She saw how death impacted people, saw the glazed look in their eyes, the way they shook their heads, the way their sentences broke in half as if they couldn't decide if silence or words would release them from sorrow.

We remember the missing as much as the lost, don't we?

She thought she had grieved for Matthew, cried all the tears she had, but now she saw the desert of grief that lay before her. It could go on and on. The human body was eighty percent water; that meant she was literally made of tears.

It hurts almost more than I can bear. Tears sting my eyes again; I wipe them away impatiently. I am so tired of crying, so tired of feeling like half a person, but I don't know how to change things... (I have never felt so lost and alone.)

As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

For the first time in her career, the tragedy of it all was nearly unbearable. It wasn't worse here than where she'd been before. That wasn't it. The situation hadn't changed. She had. She carried grief with her everywhere, and the burden of it made compartmentalization impossible.

She could hardly imagine a thing as terrible as losing your mother. The very thought of it made Leni sick to her stomach. A girl was like a kite; without her mother's strong, steady hold on the string, she might just float away, be lost somewhere among the clouds. Leni

They are obviously drowning in a sea of what they've lost. I know about those dark waters. Someone needs to throw them a life ring.

She cried at last, for all the times she'd had been with her father and all the times she hadn't, and for all the times she never would be. When the tears had worn themselves out and left her dry, she got unsteadily to her feet.

She knew sorrow would hit her later, hit her hard, the sudden, aching realization that her father was Gone, that she'd never pick up the phone and hear his voice again, or go to her mailbox and get a letter written in his bold, sweeping hand.

Rose, who spoke for the first time about her own lost children, had showed Elsa that grief could be borne one day, one chore, at a time.