Quotes About Grief

Tearless grief bleeds inwardly.

We must also learn to respect our shadow—that part of us we try to hide so others won't know how we "really" are. This includes our negativity, sorrow, jealousy, anger, and grief.

I am not glad she is dead, but I am not sorry she is gone.

I learned long ago that loss is not only probably but inevitable.

And anyway, how do you talk about losing everything?

I couldn't have imagined how much more there was to lose.

Before we leave the gravesite, Mary sings Mother's favorite gospel hymn ... Mary's lovely voice rises and lingers in the air, and by the end of the song most of us are crying. I am too, though I still don't know what those stars are meant to represent. My mistake, I suppose, is in thinking they should mean something.

I learned long ago that loss is not only probable but inevitable.

As I watch her pine casket descend...I try to envision the reunion of a frail eighty year old woman with her decades younger husband and their three sons and am left with the lingering feeling that the places we go in our minds to find comfort have little to do with where our bodies go

My heart is shattered, an all that's left are jagged shards.

It was during this period that she would wake in the night and get out of bed to go to her parents' room, only to realize, standing in the hall, that she had no parents.

No substitute for the living, perhaps, but I wasn't given a choice. I could take solace in their presence or I could fall down in a heap, lamenting what I'd lost.

Aprendí hace mucho que la pérdida no solo es probable, sino inevitable.

Feeling around in the bag, he said, "Aw, shit. I meant to get you a chain to clip these on." He patted her knee. "Don't worry about it. That'll be part two." Two weeks later, coming home late one night, he lost control of his car, and that was that. Within six months, Molly was living somewhere else. It would be years until she bought herself that chain.

I try to forget the horror of what happened. Or—perhaps forget is the wrong word. How can I forget? And yet how can I move forward even a step without tamping down the despair I feel? When I close my eyes, I hear Maisie's cries and Mam's screams, smell the acrid smoke that must have started from that pile of newspapers, feel the heat of the fire on my skin, and heave upright on my pallet in the Schatzmans' parlor, soaked in a cold sweat.

When I Am Dead, My Dearest When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

Who shall tell the lady's grief When her Cat was past relief? Who shall number the hot tears Shed o'er her, beloved for years? Who shall say the dark dismay Which her dying caused that day?

My tears were swallowed by the sea; Her songs died on the air.

As she stands in the doorway watching him, the feeling comes on her again, under her breastbone, between her ribs. A feeling that is one second of joy, two seconds of grief. And she knows then: what has been removed is loneliness and what has been added is love

Jarrod frowned like he felt bad for me, and I thought I saw maybe even a hint of tears in his eyes, like he was attending the funeral of a good friend who had died in an accident, and was looking down at his dead body, thinking, That's not him, the way I'd thought when I saw my grandmother in her casket, all made up with colors she'd have never chosen for herself had she been alive.

and maybe it was the spirit of her dead mother sickening her, or maybe it was her inability to grieve a person she should, by biological rights, have grieved, but as with so many diagnoses it is, in the end, the symptoms that matter, not the cause, because this is what being alive means, this is what being a person means, to be sickened by an illness known as you.

These people," she said. "These people who die and you never knew them. What are you supposed to feel?" She really wanted me to tell her. She really thought that I would know. "Nothing," I said, tossing the key on her bed. "You're not supposed to feel anything.

Sataa hidasta kirkasta lunta kuin tähdet putoilisivat Odotamme pakkasen lauhtuvan ja surun johtavan jonnekin

His pain is too great for tears. Some pain is so great that tears are powerless.