Quotes About Grief

With the passing of time, she'd tire of this exercise. She would find it increasingly exhausting to conjure up, to dust off, to resuscitate once again what was long dead. There would come a day when the details of his face would begin to slip from memory's grip. She would not miss him as much as she did now, when the ache of his absence was her unremitting companion.

thought, She's your wife. My mother, we buried. But he knew to stifle those words before they came

I'm sorry," Laila says, marveling at how every Afghan story is marked by death and loss and unimaginable grief. And yet, she sees, people find a way to survive, to go on. Laila thinks of her own life and all that has happened to her, and she is astonished that she too has survived, that she is alive and sitting in this taxi listening to this man's story.

Good-bye, Mariam." And, with that, unaware that she is weeping

It Does not Frighten Me To Leave This Life That My Only Son Left Five Years Ago, This Life That Insist We Bear Sorrow Upon Sorrow Long After We Can Bear No More. No I Believe I Shall Gladly Take My Leave When The Time Comes. What Frightens Me Is The Day God Summon Me Before Him And Asks. How Shall I Explain Myself To Him. What Will Be My Defense For Not Heeding His Commads.

You think knowing things will solve your private little griefs?

Never had I beheld such despair.

Death had kissed her long and hard with its frozen lips, and her body was stiff. I held her in my arms, hoping the warmth of my body could bring her back to life. Ignoring my brother's presence, I wept uncontrollably. With Lulu in my arms, I walked toward the front lawn. I had chosen a burial site for Lulu - a strip of land under the cherry tree overlooking the street.

For the remainder of her days, my grandmother lay in bed, staring past the window into space. It was if a part of her mind had died before her body had time to give up.

To hell with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt and your tongue down my throat like an oxygen tube. Cover me in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

bleak territory of the heart.

She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.

When he reached the desk he handed Caroline a photograph in a dark blue cardboard frame. It was a portrait, black and white, faintly tinted. The woman looking out wore a pale peach sweater. Her hair was gently waved, her eyes a deep shade of blue. Rupert Dean's wife, Emelda, dead now for twenty years. She was te love of my life, he announced to Caroline, his voice so loud that people looked up.

I'd given up on the white picket fence after Kisten had died—finding out my kids would be demons was the nail in the coffin.

It hurts," he whispered, his hands falling to his sides. "All the time. Even when I try." Tears warmed my eyes, and I pulled back so I could look at him. "It will stop one day," I said as I gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Even without your trying, and then you'll feel guilty. After that, you'll wake up one morning, remember her, and smile.

What was worry, after all, but a kind of fear? It was fear for the future. And in fact the future was bound to bring its share of bad things, there was no avoiding that. So worry was really a hopeless enterprise, in that it could not do anything. It was an anticipation of grief, a nightmare of the future. A type of fear; and she was determined not to be afraid.

Oh I miss you Hetti Moore But there's no one here left to tell - The world has gone black before my eyes.

And after I told my six-year-old, grandma died in the accident, after tears and questions she suggested, maybe now is a good time to explain what the man has to do with babies. So i chose one perfect lily from that vase and with the tip of a paring knife slit open the pistil to trace the passage pollen makes to the egg cell- the eggs i then slipped out and dotted on her fingertips, their greenish-white translucent as the air in this blizzard that cannot cool the unbearable heart.

the gaps in sensitivity displayed are vast. Concepts that have not often been surpassed For ignorance or downright nastiness - That the habit of indifference is less Destructive than the embrace of love, that crimes Are paid for never or a thousand times, That the gentle come to grief - all these are forced Into scenes, dialogue, comments, and endorsed By the main action, manifesting there An inhumanity beyond despair.

I've wrought my family's destruction. Killed those I loved most, with my very touch. My dark precipice has been reached. I throw back my head and roar as recognition takes hold. I am Death...

I could ask for no better parents.' 'You miss them.' After all this time? 'Every single day out of hundreds of thousands.' What could I say to that? Anything I came up with sounded trite. Silence fell over us. Aric drank, lost in thought. And I knew he was remembering the night he'd killed them...

If Aric lived, I had to find him. But how, when I was dying from grief? I

And the bleak one? Bowen? What's his damage? Why does he look so bad? He lost someone verra close to him. I'm sorry, she said softly. When did it happen? Early eighteen hundreds. And he still hasn't recovered? He's gotten worse. Lachlain rested his forehead against hers. It's our nature, Emma.