Quotes About Memories

I played with Tristan Thompson and Cory Joseph. They were my high school teammates.

Let me tell you, when you play for a team that has the teammates and fans that Liverpool have then you always have a soft spot for them. It never leaves you.

Every offseason when I'm back in Ohio, I get together with some of my former teammates and reminisce about our run in 2007.

High school was really fun. I had lots of friends, I had activities, like basketball teams.

Oh, Rose. You are young. You've barely lived. Everyone thinks their first love is the only one they'll ever have.

Didn't you have one when you were little? What was his name, Hopper?" "Yeah," I said, resisting the urge to punch him on the arm. Hopper? Really? "Best rabbit ever.

A year. We'd known each other only a year, but we'd lived a lifetime in it.

Would he have said he loved me? I would ask myself that for the rest of my life.

Going through the grief period of my dad and losing him - that was the worst thing because you know when you get that call. When you are seven, eight years old, you have that almost vision in your mind of what that's going to be like and what your going to feel like and it doesn't prepare you.

Into that malevolent place they walked, emerging with pathetic little bundles: a coat, a cap, perhaps a frayed pair of trousers. In the seam of a soiled shirt, one family found a hidden note. "I dream of the hills around Siena, and of my love whom I shall never see again," the doomed man had written. "I shall become one gaping wound—like the winds, nothing.

I guess nostalgia is our sanctuary in sorry times.

The past is where we go when we are helpless; the past, no matter what the psychiatrists say, can't really hurt you much more than it already has, not like the future, which comes at you like a train around a blind curve.

How do you not love a place where the faded beads from a parade six years before still hang in the branches of the live oak trees.

It has the pictures of my people, the books I love, the music I hear. I guess it is really just a wooden box to hold a life in, for days or decades, until someone else takes it over.

That night, he just picked, and they let the liquor run through their blood, circle their heart, and soften their heads, like a pillow, without laying down.

I had seen my mother cry from pain and grief and misery, when I was a child. I had never seen her cry from happiness until they called out my name and I walked up to get that prize, then handed it to her.

The past is where we go when we are helpless; the past, no matter what the psychiatrists say, can't really hurt you much more than it already has, not like the future, which comes at you like a train around a blind curve.

She passed November 25, 2002,' he said, pointing to a sepia-toned photo of them taken when they were still young. 'She was a wife to me, boy,' he said, and then he looked around the room, his eyes fierce, as if daring someone to disagree. He is asked if he has anything else to say about baseball, but he is lost now, in a place even the cheers cannot reach, cannot brighten.

You're the guy they depend on when things go bad, when they need somebody to pull them out of the ditch, or clear the road with your chainsaw, or jump them off in the middle of the night. "People will line up to say this stuff over you, like they did Grandpa," I said. My kin could recall how they could see the headlights coming for miles down those twisting mountain roads, the night he left this earth.

We are good at stories. We hoard them, like an old woman in a room full of boxes, but now and then we pull out our best, and spread them out. We talk of the bad years when the cotton didn't open, and the day my cousin Wanda was washed in the Blood. We buff our beloved ancestors until they are smooth of sin, and give our scoundrels a hard shake, although sometimes we can't remember exactly which is who.

You put a song on the record or on tape and you stop singing it. You just don't sit around and sing it anymore unless you're performing. That's kind of sad.

She and Yoshiko crisscrossed in the water, grinning crazily at each other, spray whipping their feces.

I imagined him then walking the few feet to the hilltop, where he had bedded down so many times next his life partner, and lying down to rest. As he slowly drifted off to sleep, I would like to think that the scent from that tree triggered a picture. If so, then the last thing in 21's mind as he lost consciousness for the final time was an image of 42.

The first guitar I ever got was for my 13th birthday.