Quotes About Memories

You know, that was what we missed most. Not our beds, not our homes, not even our mothers. We would talk about food.

Elise Vasquez and I stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the woman we both feel we lost, and may be never really had.

Neither of us, it turns out, has been the only one who lost someone she loved.

What is a parent, really, but somebody who picks up the things a child leaves behind - a trail made of stripped off clothing, orphaned shoes, tiny bright plastic game pieces, and nostalgia - and who hands back each of these when its needed?

My father died last year," Thomas said. "I still look for him in crowds." "I'm sorry." He shrugged. "I think grief is like a really ugly couch. It never goes away. You can decorate around it; you can slap a doily on top of it; you can push it to the corner of the room—but eventually, you learn to live with it.

I know the first person I kissed won't be nearly as important as the last person I kiss.

A song can last long after the events and people in it are dust and dreams and gone.

It just goes to show you: you can put nine thousand miles between you and another person. You can make a vow to never speak his name. You can surgically remove someone from your life. And still, he'll haunt you.

If you think about someone you've loved and lost, you are already with them. The rest is just details.

This is what I like about photographs. They're proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect.

He shrugged. 'I think grief is like a really ugly couch. It never goes away. You can decorate around it; you can slap a doily on top of it; you can push it to the corner of the room--but eventually, you learn to live with it.' Somehow, I thought, elephants had taken it a step further. They didn't grimace every time they entered the room and saw that couch. They said, 'remember how many good memories we had here?' And they sat, for just a little while, before moving elsewhere.

think grief is like a really ugly couch. It never goes away. You can decorate around it; you can slap a doily on top of it; you can push it to the corner of the room—but eventually, you learn to live with it.

She isn't the girl who used to live next door, hasn't been for years. Back then she had freckles and jeans with holes at the knees and a ponytail yanked so tight it made her eyes pull at the corners. Now she wears pantyhose and tailored suits; she has had the same short bob hairstyle for five years. But when Patrick gets close enough, she still smells like childhood to him.

When we were little, Eric and Fitz and I invented a language. I've forgotten most of it, with the exception of a few words: valyango, which meant pirate; palapala, which meant rain; and ruskifer, which had no translation to English but described the dimpled bottom of a woven basket, all the reeds coming together to form one joint spot, and that we sometimes used to explain our friendship.

the smile of a child is a tattoo: indelible art.

But I love you, Trixie said. There was no easy switch that she could flip to stem the flow of feelings, no way to drain the memories that pooled like acid in her stomach because her heart no longer knew what to do with them. She couldn't blame Jason; she didn't like herself like this, either. But she couldn't go back to being the girl she'd been before she met him; that girl was gone. So where did that leave her?

Corazon smiled at him. You know how your mother keeps her Christmas card list? How she sends to people who send her one, and that list gets longer and longer every year? - Yeah, Jack muttered. I have to lick the damn stamps. -Watch your mouth, Cora reprimanded. See love's like that. Once you give it, even by accident, you're on that list forever.

I have only known her for two years. But if you took every memory, every moment, if you stretched them end to end—they'd reach forever. •

That's what I think love is, when your hindsight's twenty-twenty, and you still wouldn't change a thing.

When you die, you don't get to catch snowflakes on your tongue. You don't get to breathe winter in, deep in your lungs. You can't lie in bed and watch for the lights of the passing town plow. You can't suck on an icicle until your forehead hurts.

As much as you want to hold on to the bitter sore memories that someone has left this world, you are still in it. And the very act of living is a tide: at first it seems to make no difference at all, and then one day you look down and see how much pain has eroded.

Mistakes are memories you hide in an attic: old love letters from relationships that tanked, photos of dead relatives, toys from a childhood you miss. Out of sight is out of mind, but somewhere deep inside you know they still exist. And you also know that you're avoiding them.

There were some memories, she knew, you could run from forever and never shake. Josie

That's the paradox of loss: How can something that's gone weigh us down so much?