Quotes About Memories

Days stolen are always sweeter than days given.

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar.

Life is made up of meetings and partings. People come into your life everyday, you say good morning, you say good evening, some stay for a few minutes, some stay for a few months, some a year, others a whole lifetime. No matter who it is, you meet and then you part. I'm so glad I met you Elizabeth Egan; I'll thank my lucky stars for that. I think I wished for you all of my life" He whispered. "But now it is time for us to part.

Sometimes there is only one thing left to say, P. S. I Love You....

But the dead, they have ghosts. Ghosts are very useful for haunting. Never forget the dead, Tula. They have their function. They sometimes speak at the most useful or inopportune times.

It really kind of sucked to be close to someone for so long and then suddenly not be anything anymore.

È sempre stato così, in tutti i miei viaggi: sono sempre un perdente, perché mi attacco troppo alle cose, o alle persone, e cosi il viaggio non è più un viaggio, ma un ripetuto addio Ho passato il tempo a dire addio e a ricordare, e a raccogliere indirizzi nelle mie agendine come piccole lapidi.

You are the end, and the beginning. ... When I die, my only regret will be that you could never reside in my heart to hear how it sings when you touch me.

We ought to talk. Had four words ever put more fear into the heart of men around the world? He'd not heard them before himself, but ancient gender memory recognized them well. He was in for it now.

She smelled of home...as if home had never been a place, but had always been this little person whom she'd carried alongside her.

She did not know how to explain what happened, how everything has changed in just one day, how someone she loved so dearly could be there one minute, and the next minute: gone.

Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?

To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all existed at once.

To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all existed at once. You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she'd been and the child she'd become and the adult she would grow up to be,

When are you ever done with the story of someone you love? You turn the most precious of your memories over and over, wearing their edges smooth, warming them again with your heat. You touch the curves and hollows of every detail you have, memorizing them, reciting them once more though you already know them in your bones. Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?

To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all existed at once. You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she'd been and the child she'd become and the adult she would grow up to be, and you saw them all simultaneously, like a 3-D image. It made your head spin.

But she did not know how to explain what had happened, how everything had changed in just one day, how someone she loved so dearly could be there one minute, and the next minute: gone.

To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for existed all at once.

the way memories of a lost loved one always smooth and simplify themselves, shedding complexities like scales.

Já não se lembrava de como era abraçar uma criança - abraçar fosse quem fosse - desta forma. Como o peso da outra pessoa se afunda em nós, como se agarram instintivamente. Como confiam em nós. Passa muito tempo até se sentir preparado para a largar.

To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all existed at once. You

A game they played, he and his mother, when he was very small. Before school, before he had any other world but her.

For the rest of her life, this would be what Marilyn thought of first when she thought of her mother. Her mother, who had never left her hometown eighty miles from Charlottesville, who always wore gloves outside the house, and who never, in all the years Marilyn could remember, sent her to school without a hot breakfast

Dave Matthews Band was dope; Bryan Adams was jake. Getting to third base was dope; being grounded was jake. After that, he'd stayed upstairs when Tim came over, and was meanly glad when he and Trip began to drift apart. Now here was Tim calling Moody's name—his