Quotes About Family

And here was the thing I didn't understand then but do now—the loneliness. I was right, in that there was just the three of us. Or the two of us. Nobody else, not Clemence, not even my mother herself, cared as much as we did about my mother. Nobody else thought night and day of her. Nobody else knew what was happening to her. Nobody else was as desperate as the two of us, my father and I, to get our life back. To return to the Before.

Irene nodded. She couldn't say it but she knew she was destroying a world. A little culture. It was the known and safe way of behaving in the family. All the rituals, wrong or sick, it didn't matter, good or bad, would be useless. All the strategies. They knew the familiar treacheries, but now they would be open to new dangers.

This was our ritual. Our breaking break, our communion. and it all began with that trusting moment where my father walked up behind my mother and she smiled at his approach without turning. By now they stood staring at each other helplessly over the broken dish.

It was a quilt of patches left over from the woolen coats that had passed through the family

But also, he resisted the idea that his endless work, the warmth of his family, and this identity that got him followed in stores and ejected from restaurants and movies, this way he was, for good or bad, was just another thing for a white man to acquire.

The snow fell deeper that Easter than it had in forty years, but June walked over it like water and came home.

Juggie Blue: We don't want to leave our homes We are poor, but even poor people can love their land. You do not need money to love your home.

His father was so very old now that he slept most of the day. He was ninety-four. When Thomas thought of his father, peace stole across his chest and covered him like sunlight.

You're not very trusting. Are you sure you haven't been around here before?" "My dad is a drunk." "Oh, I get it," said Jack. "Mine was too.

We don't want to leave our homes We are poor, but even poor people can love their land. You do not need money to love your home.

still kept. Rose and the girls were hooting

I heard your looking for your sis. My cousin lives in the Cities. She saw her and wrote to you—with her L hand because she broke her R finger pointing out my faults. That's Genevieve for you. Watch the mail.

In English there was a word for every object. In Ojibwe there was a word for every action. English had more shades of personal emotion, but Ojibwe had more shades of family relationships.

It was always what my father called the last leg of the journey. But we did not stop this time. We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just kept going.

My father had bought an ugly new clock, and it was ticking again in the quiet kitchen.

They were sitting where Barnes always sat when he drove his boxers home and was asked, inevitably, in for a visit—the table central to eating, cooking, canning, drying, and processing foods, also playing pinochle and cribbage, bathing babies in dishpans, and visiting.

couldn't do the touch for Grandpa, though. He was a hard nut. You know, some people fall right through the hole in their lives.

On this stretch of highway he was afflicted. It felt as if his heart was being pierced by long sharp needles. He flashed on his father, the two of them sitting in late sunshine, gathering its fugitive warmth.

There was the residue of joy in their tattered yard.

Sure, it's not good for you, but Asema says it's grandma food, 'bad for the arteries but good for the heart.

Slowly and inevitably, she fell in love with each person in the family, only she didn't know what to call it. She simply found herself related.

When Thomas thought of his father peace stole across his chest and covered him like sunlight.

Dad had finally allowed Cappy to come over that day. It was a grueling hot afternoon so we were inside playing Bionic Commando, quietly as we could, with the fan on. As always, my mother was sleeping. There was a soft tap. I answered the door, and there was Linda Wishkob, her bulging eyes, her tight blue uniform, her sweaty, dull, makeup-less face. Those long fingernails on the stubby fingers suddenly struck me as sinister, though they were painted an innocent pink

Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides The Vixen, by Francine Prose Legends of the Fall, by Jim Harrison The Winter Soldier, by Daniel Mason