Quotes About Memories

Come sit on my lap,' she said. Soon, very soon, he would think himself too big for lap-sitting. He got down from his chair and she picked him up; he was solid as anything. She held him close and swayed her body a little, like a cradle rocking, and soon he looked at her with the lovely solemnity that seemed to be a hallmark of their Jack Tyler, and said, ' I could prob'ly have a deviled egg now.

at his mother's grave and his father's urn.

Old post cards, tin wind-up toys with rusted gears, buttons long out of fashion, ticket stubs found in a shoebox in the attic—these are the things Alice likes, not new stuff that comes sealed in plastic.

This was the cream of marriage, this nightly turning out of the day's pocketful of memories, this deft habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other hand, quite a single one.

She reached her doorstep. The key turned sweetly in the lock. That was the kind of thing one remembered about a house: not the size of the rooms or the color of the walls, but the feel of the door-handles and light-switches, the shape and texture of the banister-rail under one's palm; minute tactual intimacies, whose resumption was the essence of coming home.

Hansi, after a day or two's distant politeness, had taken her by the hand and led her to a row of curiously-shaped pebbles in a secret hiding-place between the wood-stacks. "Meine Sammlung," he said briefly. "My election," echoed Toby's voice in her memory. Her heart turned over: how could there be this ridiculous talk of war, when little boys in all countries collected stones, dodged cleaning their teeth, and hated cauliflower?

Hebt u nog ouwe spulletjes? Alleen mezelf.

One time," Gertie said. "You go out into a hurricane one time and you never hear the end of it.

Let's go home," he said. Home. That word meant something completely different now than it had before. It meant everything.

The post office has a great charm at one point of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.

I loved raising my kids. I loved the process, the dirt of it, the tears of it, the frustration of it, Christmas, Easter, birthdays, growth charts, pediatrician appointments. I loved all of it.

So the years passed and everyone grew old and Nell's husband died and Hilda grew to be a large, angry sort of woman very high up in local government. When Nell was eighty-four Hilda retired and they went to live at a sea-side place where Hilda had had meaningful holidays during the menopause with a woman called Audrey, now dead.

Apie praeit?, nebent ji b?t? be galo laiminga, vaikai kalb?ti nelink?.

Nothing like being with people you've known almost your entire life. Having a shared history is something you just can't create with the new ones. No matter how much you like that, it just isn't the same.

In a human-sized room, someone is setting a human-sized table, with yellow napkins, someone is calling her children to come in from a day whose losses as yet remain child-sized.

Some of what I remembered was not my own story. It was twisted like tobacco strands, tangled with a dozen other memories of people who were here and others who were not even a part of the terror.

He remembers when you didn't need FBI clearance to talk to a ballplayer and baseball was what you did until you grew up.

Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago — the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider.... It doesn't seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we've traveled.

first, the repeated experience of the trauma itself; second, the effects of the trauma on personality development; and third, the need to re-experience the feelings and/or memories of the original trauma in order to integrate it and work it through.

My father was so good-natured and had such a happy disposition. I've always confused him with Jimmy Stewart. So, think Jimmy Stewart. That's my dad.

Hey! Callie. At last . . . It's been ages you know, since your impressive spadework in the garden . . . and afterwards . . .

In second grade my second love wrote "I love you" on a scrap of paper and dropped it on my desk as he passed by. He was very shy and sullen. When he moved to another school at the end of the term, I was heartsick. I thought about him all summer. But I learned then that we do outgrow people and our tastes do change. One should not marry until one is older. At least ten.

I loved the house the way you would any new house, because it is populated by your future, the family of children who will fill it with noise or chaos and satisfying busy pleasures.

As she sucked on her cherry bonbon, her tongue found the ridge of the swastika on the fruitdrop's sugar coat, the sourness beneath the sweet, and the image of grandmother came to her, with her gentle eyes and her bagful of Gummi bears and marzipan pigs.