Quotes About Memories

New Grief awakens the old.

There's a curious thing about pain or hardship. In the beginning, it's an enemy, it's something that you don't want to face or think about or deal with. Yet with time it becomes almost a friend. If you've lost someone you love very much, in the beginning you can't bear it, but as the years go by, the pain of losing them is what reminds you so vividly of them — that they were alive.

That grief will go on, but the love goes on too.

Our hearts mourn when a loved-one departs, but with courage we learn to accept their absence in our lives. In gratitude, we appreciate the time that was given. And with love, the memories are not forsaken. We continue to create new ones so we can smile again.

Love stabs at loss with pangs of past happiness.

Grief is processing what's been taken from you, what's still within you, and all the blessings and memories left behind by the one you're grieving.

Fresh petals of grief will eventually wilt and fall away And along with tears and love, memories and time They will nourish the seeds of healing underneath — Life will re-flower as acceptance, strength, and peace

Missing you isn't just an empty void — it's what-ifs and questions and endless thoughts and bittersweet memories and runaway feelings and emotions that can't get a hold on anything physical so just slip and slide around my mind, and hide and re-emerge.

My heart has cried a deep red grief since you've been gone, pulsing crimson pain.

Time catalogues heartbreak as love poetry.

They say that time heals all wounds, but all it's done so far is give me more hours to think about how much I miss you.

History is but a collection of epitaphs.

But it was home. And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.

Dust is particles of the past. If you clean, you're wiping away all those good memories.

So here was my predicament: I knew that within myself was a Golconda of memories of other lives, yet I was unable to do more than flit like a madman through those memories. I had my Golconda but could not mine it.

He knew he was at last answering the call, running by the side of his wood brother toward the place from where the call surely came. Old memories were coming upon him fast, and he was stirring to them as of old he stirred to the realities of which they were the shadows. He had done this thing before, somewhere in that other and dimly remembered world, and he was doing it again now, running free in the open, the unpacked earth underfoot, the wide sky overhead.

The great actors of history cannot be neatly tucked between the covers of a book and filed away like so many pressed botanical specimens.

Energy and motion made visible – memories arrested in space

Sidonie, I know you don't remember it, but you once promised to trust me beyond all reason. And I swear to you that all that I am, all that I possess, including this gem-stone, is yours. I need you. I can't do this alone. Forget your memories. Look into your heart. And if you can find somewhere there, some lingering spark of trust that owes naught to reason, I beg you to speak the word written here.

Again and again, I pushed my memories away. There were days when it was easy and days when it was hard. My love ... was a boulder in my heart. I sought to let go of it and let it sink. Let it sink below the surface, carrying my heart with it. Let it come to rest on the stream's bottom, a vast hidden bulwark, dividing the current. Let it stay there, hidden and unseen. Forgotten. Betimes it worked. Betimes it didn't. It was the best I could do.

Our eyes met. We had so very many shared memories between us, Bao and I. Some were wonderous, and some were terrible. Some were both.

mothers have wept less, bidding farewell to their children. At least, mine certainly did.

Anne felt sad. People parted, years passed, they met again Ã¢â'¬â€ and the meeting proved no reunion, offered no warm memories, only the acid knowledge that time had passed and things weren't as bright or attractive as they had been.

My neck and shoulders and back ached fiercely after a day spent bending over boxes of starch. I tried singing softly to keep my spirits up, but the only songs I knew by heart were the hymns we sang at school. After one verse of 'He Who Would Valiant Be' I was in tears. I thought of Olivia and Mr Andrews. I was in such a state I almost felt nostalgic for hawk-nosed Mounty.