Quotes About Memory

I've wanted you a long time, Soph. Never forgot how you tasted, not for one single fuckin' day in the last four years. Jesus, you were sweet.

If God gave Dad Alzheimer's, He's got to understand when Dad forgets what church he belongs to.

The memory may not change in form, but years of underlining give it a weight that can become tremendous. Each of the many, many times you are called to remember the cold of abandonment, the bars, and the loneliness, this experience says deep inside you, 'You see? That's the way life is, after all.

Everything comes home, my mother used to say; every word spoken, every shadow cast, every footprint in the sand. It can't be helped; it's part of what makes us who we are.

Tanto la quería, que, tardé, en aprender a olvidarla, diecinueve días y quinientas noches.

I just yesterday returned from a trip where I photographed a woman with two children whom I photographed first when she was the age of the older of the two children.

Before Peter Pan belonged to Wendy he belonged to the girl with the crow feather in her hair

We should have a funeral," he said. Pan held his hands clasped in a tent on his lap, and he bowed his head. He seemed to be trying to recall something, and it was a long time before he finally said, "Our Father. Our Father. Our Father. Amen." Then he leaned back, and his face was blank again. He smiled, all white teeth. "There.

It took several minutes, but he was meticulous about each letter. IN MEMRY OF THE STRANJER, it said. HE LIVD AND DID.

For years after my father left us for Belladonna, I had looked for him... the last time someone had seen them, they were living on a duck's back.

One by one they dissapeared Pumpkin last of all. The last May saw of himwas his sad face under his waving tuft of hair and then his long fingers,reaching out toward her for a hug that would never happen now as they turned around the bend.

The moment slipped away, but because it wasn't perfect, it was the most perfect one she could remember having

She tucked her letter and her picture in alongside it, and she ran her hands over those too. It made her feel closer to many things that were far away, that made her smile.

And when she surfaces from her dream, she calls me by my old name, though no one uses it anymore. And she turns to me, her eyelashes fluttering in the glare that surrounds me, and whispers to me in one short syllable. Tink.

But the last time they were all at the orchard together, Birdie only found one lone blossom, drying up. She took it with her and tucked it in her hair. What mattered was still there. That was what they all felt, and it was what surprised them all. What mattered couldn't be shaken.

No one wants to disappear. Words pin things down and make them real, and they last so much longer than we do.

She didn't remember that Enrico hadn't called back until she woke up in the middle of the night, shooting out of a dream. She squinted in the dark, trying to recall where she'd been--- and then it came back to her. She'd been standing on the cartoon ground in Mexico, rocky and dry and flat, watching a single peach blossom blow across its surface. Birdie chased it, but it was too fast. It blew away from her.

If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?

The damage was permanent; there would always be scars. But even the angriest scars faded over time until it was difficult to see them written on the skin at all, and the only thing that remained was the memory of how painful it had been.

Strange, how the best moments of our lives we scarcely notice except in looking back.

You carry on. That's what he'd always done. That's the task that comes with surviving, whether you deserve to live or not. You remember the dead as best you can. You say some words for them. Then you carry on, and you hope for better.

But that's the nice thing about looking backwards. You can pick out the bits that suit your story and toss the unhappy truths to the wind.

Grief doesn't have a plot. It isn't smooth. There is no beginning and middle and end.

Sylvie had read somewhere that the more times a story was told, the less accurate it became. Humans were prone to exaggeration; they leaned away from the parts of the narrative they found boring and leaned into the exciting spots. Details and timelines changed over years of repetition. The story became more myth and less true. Sylvie thought about how she and William rarely told their story and felt pleased; by not being shared, their love story remained intact.