Quotes About Mourning

Tens vontade de comprar O que vês só porque o viste. Só a tenho de chorar Porque só compro o ser triste.

Indifferent to this, and grieving only as much as he needs to and for as little time as possible — over the death of a son, for example, whom he will forget as the years pass, except on his birthday; over the loss of money, which he mourns until he gets some more or becomes used to the loss — humanity continues digesting and loving. Life recovers and carries on. The dead are buried. Losses forgotten.

A few weeks before the jubilee began in 2002, Queen Elizabeth died, and the public outpouring of grief and affection, with hundreds of thousands of people queuing for hours to pass by her coffin, showed how widely and deeply loved she was.

Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.

After the abrupt death of my mother, Jane, on Sept. 5, 1991, of a disease called amyloidosis, my dad took up golf at 57. He and my mother had always played tennis - a couples' game of mixed doubles and tennis bracelets and Love-Love. But in mourning, Dad turned Job-like to golf, a game of frustration and golf widows and solitary hours on the range.

I had a friend, Melissa, who was 28 years old. She was my best friend's wife, and she was my wife's best friend. She died of breast cancer. When she passed away back in 2004 was the last time I cried.

It is like visiting one's funeral, like visiting loss in its purest and most monumental form, this wild darkness, which is not only unknown but which one cannot enter as oneself.

I found my grandmother dead. It shook me up. I got up to make her breakfast, and I knew it was strange that she wasn't stirring. I went in to wake her, and she was laying in rigor mortis, and I'm done. I called next door, and the kid picked up the phone, and I was so wild, he dropped it.

It is very painful to talk about my dear friend Rishi Kapoor in 'past tense.'

I was in the tent when Bobbi Kristina's body was lowered into the ground. Watching her grandmother and her aunt, watching these women not cry but wail - you can't divorce your feelings from some of this stuff.

Losing a parent is always a terrible thing for anybody. It's no more or no less for me.

I'm mourning with the rest of the world for the talented, gorgeous, funny, intelligent John Forsythe but my heart is broken for the loss of my dear, dear friend and neighbor. I will miss him terribly.

The man placed my mother on the counter. I'd selected an urn that could easily be confused for a Chinese vase, but I no longer appreciated that. When I saw it now I thought, This thing is so ugly, and if I screw off the top I will hear my mother scream.

Their hands bathed in purifying water, the family members gathered up the calcined bones in the folds of their black garments, then sprinkled them with wine and milk, dried them with fine linen before enclosing them in a marble urn (Tib., 3, 2, 16-22). In memory of the time when burial was performed, a finger severed before the body was burnt was buried separately, and a handful of earth was thrown three times on this os resectum.

At last he whispered: 'Sylvia, it is I.' Again he said, 'It is I.' Then, knowing that she was dead, he kissed her on the mouth. And through the long watches of the night the cat purred on his knee, tightening and relaxing her padded claws, until the sky paled above the Street of the Four Winds.

Men cannot grieve as dogs do. But they grieve for many years.

I lived my grief; I slept mourning and ate sorrow and drank tears. I ignored all else.

The death of Nighteyes gutted me. I walked wounded through my life in the days that followed, unaware of just how mutilated I was. I was like the man who complains of the itching of his severed leg. The itching distracts from the immense knowledge that one will forever after hobble through life.

I bent and kissed his brow in farewell. And then, grasping the rightness of that foreign tradition, I named him as myself. For when I burned him, I knew I would be ending myself, as well. The man I had been would not survive this loss. "Good-bye, FitzChivalry Farseer.

Man cannot grieve as dogs do. But we grieve for many years.

And my father is dead. She did not speak the words aloud, but the reality of them cut her again, deeper and sharper. It seemed to her that each time she thought she had grasped the fact of his death, a few moments later it struck her again even harder.

Vanity is such a strange thing. They mourned me, and I was warmed that they loved me.

Men cannot grieve as dogs do. But we grieve for many years.

People tend to treat a miscarriage like a heavy period but it's a death. You lost your baby. You have to take time to grieve.