Quotes About Grief

And when your brother cries for her, I will feed on his tears.

The more golden the memories became, so of course the loss seemed even greater.

You can not die of grief, though it feels as if you can. A heart does not actually break, though sometimes your chest aches as if it is breaking. Grief dims with time. It is the way of things. There comes a day when you smile again, and you feel like a traitor. How dare I feel happy. How dare I be glad in a world where my father is no more. And then you cry fresh tears, because you do not miss him as much as you once did, and giving up your grief is another kind of death.

Rube, this is me you're talking to, Clancy Crew, remember? Your best buddy? And I hate to break it to you this way but your grandmother on your mother's side, she isn't sick - she's dead!

My heart, as I closed the cabinet and rose to my feet, was a small dead creature. If I could bury it in the woods, I would.

When you die, there's that much less breath to the world, and across continents someone supposedly separate gasps for air. When Marie, Joseph, peter, Moxi, Oscar, when I weep for you, don't forget I weep as well for me.

Prozac, too made me want to weep. Prozac, too, was grief, because it returned me to the regular world with consequences I never expected.

If this is the case, then the "normal state" Prozac ushers in is an experience in the surreal, Dali's dripping clock, a disorientation so deep and sweet you spin. Thus Prozac, make no mistake about it, blissed me out and freaked me out and later on, when the full force of health hit me, sometimes stunned me with grief.

Holly was strangely silent. Her head lolled. "Holly!" he screamed. "Holly!" But she didn't open her eyes.

Because at least one hundred of the people who died were schoolchildren.

grieving is an important element in the reconnection process. Grief is how human beings come to terms with irrevocable loss.

Le plus difficile, c'est la non-certitude, cette probabilité, même infime, que vous puissiez la retrouver encore. Cette brèche vous laisse dans l'errance, vous empêche de commencer à faire votre deuil.

Sometimes there is only one thing left to say, P. S. I Love You....

I wake up in the morning and I feel like I'm missing something. I know that there's something not right, and it takes me a while to remember what it is . . . then I remember. My best friend is gone. My only friend. It was silly of me to rely so much on one person.

Betrayal and grief have a certain color no matter what the species is.

It is so difficult to be honest when someone has died; it's as if truth stops at the grave even when the lies continue to hurt the living.

It would disappear forever from her memory of Lydia, the way memories of a lost loved one always smooth and simplify themselves, shedding complexities like scales.

He can guess, but he won't ever know, not really. What it was like, what she was thinking, everything she'd never told him. Whether she thought he'd failed her, or whether she wanted him to let her go. This, more than anything, makes him feel that she is gone.

There is nowhere to go but on. Still, part of her longs to go back for one instant—not to change anything, not even to speak to Lydia, not to tell her anything at all. Just to open the door and see her daughter there, asleep, one more time, and know all was well.

She did not know how to explain what happened, how everything has changed in just one day, how someone she loved so dearly could be there one minute, and the next minute: gone.

It had not been science that Lydia had loved. And then, as if the tears are telescopes, she begins to see more clearly: the shredded posters and pictures, the rubble of books, the shelf prostrate at her feet. Everything that she had wanted for Lydia, which Lydia had never wanted but had embraced anyway. A dull chill creeps over her. Perhaps—and this thought chokes her—that had dragged Lydia underwater at last.

By tomorrow Marilyn would forget this moment: Lydia's shout, the shattered edges in her tone. It would disappear forever from her memory of Lydia, the way memories of a lost loved one always smooth and simplify themselves, shedding complexity like scales.

At last something important had occurred, something that she ought to write down. But she did not know how to explain what had happened, how everything had changed in just one day, how someone she loved so dearly could be there one minute, and the next minute: gone .

When are you ever done with the story of someone you love? You turn the most precious of your memories over and over, wearing their edges smooth, warming them again with your heat. You touch the curves and hollows of every detail you have, memorizing them, reciting them once more though you already know them in your bones. Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?