Quotes About Memories

Sure, these things had belonged to my grandpa, but they didn't mean anything to me and didn't hold any special memories.

The problem was that such simple, ordinary bliss seldom formed memories. It was too smooth and silken to adhere. It was the bad stuff, ragged and uneven, that caught, like all those plastic grocery bags stuck in the trees of Baltimore.

You have fewer than 1,000 Saturdays with each child in your care before they're grown up.

Fortunately, being mindful of family time—making a commitment to be there physically and mentally and enjoy life while doing so—makes memories possible. We control a lot less about our children's outcomes in life than we think. They are their own people. But one thing parents do shape is whether kids remember their childhoods as happy. Creating a happy home is a conscious choice, as is creating a happy marriage.

We're not afraid of the dark. Our nightmares were born on sultry, summer afternoons.

He wanted me to be free of the past so I could be open to the future. So Alan named him after the white pines at Camp Fantastic. The tall, tall trees that had watched over Asher, and Eleanor, and everyone who had ever come here. The trees that framed a small beautiful world where joy transcended grief, and where the sounds of children, once alive, now gone, can still be heard.

Grief obliterates the present, forcing you to relive the past and dread the future.

the pain of that first lost was still raw. You could deal with it, endure it, but never escape it.

I'm not sure there are enough white roses in the world to make me forget Richard. I held up my hand before she could interrupt. But I'm not sure there are enough cozy afternoons in all eternity to make me forget Jean-Claude.

You cannot die from grief, though it feels like you can. A heart does not actually break, though sometimes you chest aches as if it is breaking. Grief dims with time. It is the way of things. There comes a day when you smile again, and you feel like a traitor. How dare I feel happy. How dare I be glad in a world my father is no more. And then you cry fresh tears, because you do not miss him so much as you once did, and giving up your grief is another kind of death.

You cannot miss what you never had, but you can miss forever the man you loved and lost.

There are some stories, some memories, that if you tell them after dark, they seem to gain weight, substance, as if there are things listening, waiting to hear themselves spoken of again. Words have power. But even thinking about them is sometimes enough to make the air in a room heavy.

Everyone else goes home for nostalgia, and happy memories. I end up feeling like I never fit in with the family as a child, and being older hasn't changed that.

The tears were back, stinging just behind my eyes. There was blood all over my penguins. I didn't give a damn about the walls and carpet. They could be replaced, but I'd collected those damned stuffed toys over years.

I have seen enough for two lifetimes. Maybe three, but I was very drunk at the time. -Marjorie Liu, The Tangleroot Palace

I guess we never really get rid of the broken pieces; we heal, but the scar tissue stays to remind us of what happened.

He'd been living with and engaged to Donna for years, but never quite married, but the kids thought of him as their dad. Becca had been only six when he and her mother started dating. Edward, whom the vampires had nicknamed "Death," had taken Becca to dance class and sat in the waiting room with the moms for years now. It made me smile just to think about it.

The person who knew you best when you were seventeen will always have a claim on you, no matter how much you change. There's something seductive and magnetic about it, the feeling of being understood like that. I suppose it goes both ways. (19)

The person who knew you best when you were seventeen will always have a claim on you, no matter how much you change. There's something seductive and magnetic about it, the feeling of being understood like that. I suppose it goes both ways.

His father clasped his shoulders, holding him at arm's length, looking him up and down. "You've grown." "It's been eleven years," said Jack numbly. "Of course I've grown.

Loss. A strange word. It seemed to mean an absence, something missing; but loss was also a presence all its own, a fanged and snarling monster ready at any moment to break its chain and snatch someone away.

Well it was one of those days Larger than life When your friends came to dinner And they stayed the night And then they cleaned out the refrigerator And ate everything in sight And then they stayed up in the livingroom And cried all night Strange angels Singing just for me Old stories Haunting me This is nothing Like I thought it would be . . . .

I want to be in fifth grade again. Now, that is a deep dark secret, almost as big as the other one. Fifth grade was easy -- old enough to play outside without Mom, too young to go off the block. The perfect leash length.

What do you miss about being alive? The sound of my mom singing, a little off-key. The way my dad went to all my swim meets and I could hear his whistle when my head was underwater, even if he did yell at me afterward for not trying harder. I miss going to the library. I miss the smell of clothes fresh out of the dryer. I miss diving off the highest board and nailing the landing. I miss waffles - p. 272.