Quotes About Grief

He wants to plead not guilty by reason of grief. She knows grief is a kind of insanity. She knows.

Someone once told me that the only good advice for grief is to stay hydrated. Because everything else is just chingaderas.

Less than two weeks ago, dirt on the floor in her hallway was a thing that could annoy her. It's unimaginable. The reality of what happened is so much worse than the very worst of her imaginary fears had ever been. But it could be worse still.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

She points the phone back to her own face. 'So can we be finished now, yes? Or should we keep on killing people?' Javier unleashes a noise that's half sob and half laughter. He wants to plead not guilty by reason of grief. She knows grief is a kind of insanity. She knows.

What love had been there was already slipping away. She could still sense it like a ghost in the room, vague and inanimate, but she could no longer feel it. Her affection had gone, leached out, like blood from a cadaver. When he squeezed her fingers, she caught the scent of formaldehyde. When he hooked his sad gaze into hers, she saw the glass of his lenses, spattered with blood.

His shadow makes the shape of grief as he hurtles toward the earth.

Padre nuestro, bless these children with your love and grace. Protect them from any further harm, God, and provide them with comfort in their time of unspeakable grief. May Jesus walk the road with them and repair their broken hearts. May Mother Mary sweep all dangers from their road ahead and lead them safely where they're going. Padre nuestro, these two faithful servants have shouldered more than their share of life's burdens already. Please, God, may you see fit to relieve them

So there it is. The welling reservoir of grief, keen and profound beneath the bruise, the proof of her humanity, still intact. She needs to bury it back where it was. She can't indulge it yet.

His grief is not the same as hers.

The depth of her feeling surprises her, because how can she have any leftover grief available for other people, for Paola's murdered nephew? But there it is—an anguish that makes her feel hollow in the bones, despair for a beautiful boy Lydia never met.

Marta's death changed everything, of course. It changed everything.

There's a tug-of-war in his heart already, between wanting to remember and needing to forget. In the months to come, Luca will sometimes wish he hadn't squandered these early days of his grief. He'll wish he'd let it pierce and demolish him more. Because, as the forgetting part takes anchor and stays, it will feel like a treachery. He'll mistakenly believe it's his own cowardice erasing Papi's details—

She can't even imagine how this loss will shape the person Luca becomes. They need to do a funeral ceremony as soon as they're safe. Luca will need a ritual, a method of fashioning his grief into a thing he can exert some small control over.

She wonders if he feels anything now, or if he's shut it all down, if Marta's death was too much for him, so he found a loophole, a way to opt out of humanity. She is stronger than he is; she feels every molecule of her loss and she endures it. She is not diluted, but amplified. Her love for Luca is bigger, louder. Lydia is vivid with life.

If there's one good thing about terror, Lydia now understands, it's that it's more immediate than grief.

She slams the trunk, walks back to the front seat to select one of his notebooks, not yet allowing herself to consider the reason she does this—to retain a personal record of his extinct handwriting.

Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta. Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro. —Pablo Neruda, "La canción desesperada

How monumental Lydia's grief had been when her father died! It terrifies her now, to think of it, how deeply formative that single loss was in her earlier life. Now there are sixteen more. When she thinks of this, she feels as tatty as a scrap of lace, defined not so much by what she's made of, but more by the shapes of what's missing.

The absolute absence of him feels like unmitigated terror.

There's a tug-of-war in his heart already, between wanting to remember and needing to forget. In the months to come, Luca will sometimes wish he hadn't squandered these early days of his grief. He'll wish he'd let it pierce and demolish him more. Because, as the forgetting part takes anchor and stays, it will feel like a treachery.

If there's one good thing about terror, Lydia now understands, it's that it's more immediate than grief. She knows that she will soon have to contend with what's happened, but for now, the possibility of what might happen still serves to anesthetize her from the worst of the anguish.

what's left is only the beloved, familiar shape of him, empty of breath.

Less than two weeks ago, dirt on the floor in her hallway was a thing that could annoy her. It's unimaginable. The reality of what happened is so much worse than the very worst of her imaginary fears had ever been.