Quotes About Memories

Jemmy won't get to go to Disneyland—but he'll have that. A family that laughs—and millions of little lights in the trees.

Scots have long memories, and they're not the most forgiving of people. There's a clan stone out there with the name of MacKenzie carved on it, and a good many of my relatives under it. I don't feel quite so personal about it as some, but I haven't forgotten either. - Roger MacKenzie Wakefield

Papa says that wars take three generations to fade from the ground where they're fought. And from what I've seen, Friends have quite long memories, as well." "He might just have a point.

His most intimate keepsake was one that could not be lost or stolen, though. He flexed his left hand, where the thin white line of the letter "C"—carved a little crookedly, but still perfectly legible—showed on the mound at the base of his thumb. The "J" he had left on her would be likewise still visible, he supposed. He hoped.

The small, homely scar of a smallpox vaccination. Rain

With vivid memories of the last IRS form, I had signed, I agreed sympathetically that a two percent tax rate was a positive outrage, wondering to myself just what had become of the fiery spirit of American taxpayers over the intervening two hundred years.

along. It was a week after we had set out, in a

23 RETURN TO LEOCH

But places held tight to the things that had happened in them, and to come again to a place you had once lived was to be brought face-to-face with what you had done there and who you had been.

Diana Gabaldon

I will not mourn him alone tonight," he said roughly, and closed the door.

time does not really exist for mothers, with regard to their children. It does not matter greatly how old the child is—in the blink of an eye, the mother can see the child again as it was when it was born, when it learned to walk, as it was at any age—at any time, even when the child is fully grown and a parent itself.

I loved Frank," I said quietly, not looking at Bree. "I loved him a lot. But by that time, Jamie was my heart and the breath of my body.

You'll not know how it is, to live among strangers for so long." "Won't I?" I said, with some sharpness. He glanced up at me, startled, then smiled faintly, looking down at the coverlet. "Aye, maybe ye will," he said. "Ye change, no? Much as ye want to keep the memories of home, and who ye are—you're changed. Not one of the strangers; ye could never be that, even if ye wanted to. But different from who ye were, too.

and in fact, he was, but…" He cleared his throat, and Ian reached into his pack and handed him a battered flask. Dark as it was, he felt the crude fleur-de-lis under his thumb. It was Ian Mòr's old soldier's flask, which his friend had kept from their time in France as young mercenaries, and the feel of it steadied him.

Do you know—" he began, then stopped. He looked down at his clenched hands, then, not at me. A blue stone winked on one knuckle, bright as a teardrop.

What I wonder about the dreams is—all the new inventions people think up—how many of those things are made by people like me—like us? How many "inventions" are really memories, of the things we once knew? And—how many of us are there?

It's a poem, or part of one. Daddy always used to say it, when he'd come home and find Mama puttering in her garden—he said she'd live out there if she could. He used to joke that she—that she'd leave us someday, and go find a place where she could live by herself, with nothing but her plants.

Ye think of me, Jamie, and Jenny and Lallybroch. Ye'll not see us, but we'll be here nonetheless and thinking of you. Look up at night, and see the stars, and ken we see them, too." He

I had worn that gold ring for nearly thirty years; token of vows taken, forsaken, renewed, and at last absolved. A token of marriage, of family; of a large part of my life. And the last trace of Frank—whom, in spite of everything, I had loved. Jamie

He had them often, in varying forms, and it always unsettled him the day after, as though for a moment Claire had really been near enough to touch, and then had drawn away again.

It occurred to me—belatedly, as so many things did these days—that John's intimate memories belonged to him, as well. "I didn't mean to pry," I said apologetically. He smiled faintly, but with real humor. "I am flattered, madam, that you should entertain an interest in me. I know many more Ã¢â'¬Â¦ conventional marriages in which the partners remain by preference in complete ignorance of each other's thoughts and histories.

His own words brought back to him the letters he had written now and then. The phantoms, as he thought of them: letters he'd written to Jamie Fraser—honest, conversational, heartfelt, and very real. No less real because he'd burned them all.

in her voice that