Quotes About Memories

Jane never forgot her first Easter day at Moor End. Many times later in her life she came back to the place she had learned to love but the memory of this one day never faded. Everything about the day was right. The weather was perfect. Sun, cloud, wind, and blue skies. An April day. Everything was fresh and clean. Everything was growing again and even Jane could sense something of the message of Easter.

He pulls the hood over my head. I try to pull back. I'm not trying to run away. I just want to see her... One last time...

That was all it took – a shower of rain, the slam of a door, the thrust of a knife or a gunshot – and just like that, a person could be gone with nothing but the memories of others to show that they'd ever existed.

I miss him. With every breath and every heartbeat, I miss him.

There are countless ingredients that make up the human body and mind, like all the components that make up me as an individual with my own personality. Sure, I have a face and voice to distinguish myself from others, but my thoughts and memories are unique only to me, and I carry a sense of my own destiny. Each of those things are just a small part of it. I collect information to use in my own way. All of that blends to create a mixture that forms me and gives rise to my conscience.

My mom was a great cook and great baker all her life.

What will happen to the flowers, now that you are gone? The earth that clings to the steps, the tulsi that begins to sprout. The colors that brighten the darkness of the stairs, the scents that perfume the air. Must I climb alone the petal-strewn trail of your descent?

I could travel back in time, way back, when at a home with too many mouths to feed, love was a constant accompaniment to each spare meal. …. With my food, I could recall the person I used to be. Before everything changed.

Você é a coisa mais bonita que eu vi até hoje na minha vida, inclusive o porquinho-da-índia que me deram quando eu tinha seis anos.

Van entretenir-se més en arribar a les dues cases contigües on havien viscut i que, passatgerament, ressuscitaren en ells una emoció fàcil de contenir, perquè ara ja no eren aquelles dues criatures que, de sobte, ho perdien tot, sinó un noi i una noia aleshores inexistents, la història dels quals començava al moment que es decidien a ser origen i no acabament.

la nostalgia es la mayor de las penitencias que cumplen los hombres al paso de los años.

Imposible mencionar a San Ángel sin recordar tiempos que pasaron y que, como las golondrinas de Bécquer, no volverán.

Dearest . . . I am writing you once more now, night . . . brings a silence that helps me talk to you, and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair. My dear . . . although life may never let us meet again, and we—because of fate—must always live apart . . . I swear, this heart of mine will be always yours . . . my thoughts, my whole life, forever yours . . . just as this pain . . . belongs . . . to you . . .

Habíamos dormido en casas campesinas, humildes, sintiendo el roce de la piedra al lado de la almohada, el correteo de los ratones, el extraño crujir de las camas transportando suspiros desde los cuartos matrimoniales, los pasos balbucientes de un anciano y el sonido de caracola del orinal en la noche, el saúco en lucha contra el viento en la ventana, el ir y el venir de las contraseñas centinelas de los perros.

Me fui dando cuenta de que soñar es como caminar entre voces que flotan y pasos que resuenan. Como caminar por una ciudad que conociste y has olvidado. A veces hay esquinas donde se puede encontrar lo que has perdido. A veces algo muy lindo, otras veces algo que es mejor no recordar.

Mange tiår senere mintes Springsteen: En tur på byen i helgen innebar alltid en fare for å bli banket opp av en vilt fremmed som ikke hadde sans for klesstilen din.

They spend most evenings at home gathered around the family hearth listening to Louis either singing, reading from Dom Guéranger's The Liturgical Year, or reciting "...from memory long passages [of poetry] principally from Lamartine and Victor Hugo.

Yes, I always remember my dad's, mom's and my grandma's perfumes.

Tessa's final photo was different from the rest. It was a close-up of her face. In color. She had taken it at the Empyrean Hotel, on the night she first saw Skylar's spirit. But of the hundreds of people looking at this photo, only Tessa knew the tiny glint in her eyes was the reflection of a ghost—the ghost of a boy who loved her so much that he had crossed the boundary of life and death to be with her one last time.

Dr. Nagash tried to comfort Tessa. He assured her they had people in the hospital who would help her get over the grief. That she was still young and had her whole life ahead of her. But how could the rest of her life ever match the 211 days she loved a green-eyed boy named Skylar?

Locking the door, Tessa sat on the cold tile floor and slumped against the wall. Tears fell down her face, over her chin, and down her neck. She began to communicate with Skylar's hat, silently asking it to cheer her up. Share some memories with me, she pleaded. Make the pain go away.

Seeing her friend's distress, Shannon swerved to the side of the road and parked. She wrapped Tessa in her arms. "It's gonna be okay," she insisted. "We'll get through this. I swear." Tessa choked back tears. "I never got to say goodbye." "I know." "I don't even remember the last thing I said to him…. What if it was something bitchy?

I just wish I could have one more day with him… one more hour." "I'm sure he feels the same way," Shannon assured her. "Wherever he is.

On peut être avec quelqu'un pour fuir sa solitude, on peut partager son quotidien pour digérer une rupture en continuant d'entretenir le souvenir d'un autre. On peut parler à quelqu'un en écoutant la voix d'un autre, regarder quelqu'un dans les yeux en voyant ceux d'un autre.