Quotes About Memories

We never lose our loved ones. They accompany us; merely in different rooms.

The rent left in the family fabric by Mother's death was irreparable.

When you endure horror day after day, month after month, it becomes normalized. I built high stone walls around my heart—walls that no one could break through or climb over for more than twenty years. My MO was to not think about it, not talk about it. Don't feed the beast. Don't give it any oxygen. It'll go away. For a long time, I made that work, but every now and then, some random thing would trigger a flood of memory and anxiety and crush my soul all over again.

My two older brothers died beside him. I don't know how my third oldest brother died, but somehow or other, whether by the gates or on the palace step, he met his end. For the first and only time in my life, I was glad my mother was dead.

Grief is only as deep as the love it's replaced

From then on the improvement was dramatic, though still the conversations with the dead friend continued, until one morning he awoke crying, and realized he was crying, not only for his own loss but also for his friend's, for the unloved years.

My mother's voice and my father's fists are two bookends of my childhood, and they form the basis of my art.

We old athletes carry the disfigurements and markings of contests remembered only by us and no one else. Nothing is more lost than a forgotten game.

Among the worst things about growing old is the loss of those irreplaceable friends who added richness and depth to your life.

Gonzaga was the kind of place you'd not even think about loving until you'd left it for a couple of years.

that dressing room for an hour as my mother pretended to be making up her mind about buying that dress she could never afford. And from that day on we never saw her adorn her glorious hair with a single blossom, nor was she ever in our long childhood

By carefully editing what I thought would harm her, I turned my childhood into something as glamorous as forbidden fruit.

What kind of world is it, Ben thought, that lets its coaches die without his boys around him, buying him Cokes, calling him by his first name, and rubbing his shoulder with Atomic Balm? He died without a face in a room I never saw without my kisses in the stained gauze or without my prayers entering the center of his pain. But worst of all, O God, you let him die, let Coach Murphy die, let Dave die, without my thanks, my thanks, my thanks.

I could rent Caesar out at birthday parties. Halloween parties. I could take pictures of Caesar eating a piece of birthday cake. Or a picture of a kid riding Caesar on his birthday. We could build a saddle.

My approach to Charleston is always silent and distracted, but I come under full sail, with hissing silk and memories a wing above me in the shapes of the birds I love best

The past was one country where I tried to limit the number of free trips.

and wondered when it was, the exact moment, that I had lost her, that I let her fall too far away from me, that I betrayed the laughing girl and let the world have her. The photograph cut into my heart and I began to read the letter aloud.

It was a joyful and rapturous night, one that happens all too infrequently in the brief transit of human life. I can remember everything about that night, every play that either team ran, every block I missed or made, every tackle I was in on. I remember the feeling of complete, transported bliss that one can get only from athletics or lovemaking.

made her unapproachable, apart. She was one of those girls who pass through your life leaving secret wreckage, but no visible wake. You remember her, but for all the wrong reasons.

Sybel, you went from me like a dream, so silently, so irrevocably—I could not bear it, I could not bear it—

The journey was more important than the place; most important was to return home, with crumpled maps, salt and pepper shakers shaped like clam shells, a sweatshirt with whales on it, and be able to say: I have been there, I have gone on a journey, I have come safely home.

He seems to be fighting again. But whether he is battling memories or something real, I can't tell.

Who Was Laura Ingalls Wilder? Wagon Trail The Big Woods School Days Coming and Going Dakota Territory A Hard Winter Growing Up Laura and Almanzo Reliving Memories The Little House Books Timelines Bibliography

We are all emigrants from the same country — the land of childhood. What I want to do is write about the journey all of us have taken — or are in the process of taking — from that special place.