Quotes About Memories

It is many years ago and at times I know nothing about her anymore who was once all things to me but all things pass. (The Eleventh Psalm)

Everything else you grow out of, but you never recover from childhood.

I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.

I look at my yesterdays for months past, and find them as good a lot of yesterdays as anybody might want. I sit there in the firelight and see them all. The hours that made them were good, and so were the moments that made the hours. I have had responsibilities and work, dangers and pleasure, good friends, and a world without walls to live in.

Far into the evening they sat around the old coal burner talking and laughing, with tears not far behind the laughter - the state legislator and the banker, the artist, the singer, and the college teacher. And in their midst, rocking and smiling, sat the little old lady who had brought them up with a song on her lips and a lantern in her hand.

A piece of rusty pump and a pile of stones,--all that was left of the place he and Marthy had called home. Home. What a big word that was. Lots of attempts made lately to belittle it. Plenty of fun poked at it. Young folks laughed about it,--called it a place to park. Everybody wanted to get some place else, seemed like. They'd find out. They'd understand some day. When they got old, they'd know. They'd want to go home. sometimes in their lives everybody wanted to go home.

Poor Christine! She had long ago spent the days of her young motherhood in the marketplace, and now that they were all squandered, she had so few pleasant things left to remember. So she crouched low over the dull embers of a few half-memories in order to warm her old heart.

When you push your stroller past a group of elderly women, you'll see in the turning gladness of their bodies a glimpse of the children they had been, turning toward the tin music of the ice cream van.

I don't remember what we ate or drank or discussed, I remember only the long table filled with high-spirited bohemians—intellectuals, internationals, the great unwashed—and how I yearned to be one of them.

When I moved out of my mom's house at 18 I was almost as sad to leave her sewing machine behind as anything else.

My dad liked to boil a squirrel head and suck the brains out the nose. Smaller than a chicken, bigger than a rat.

Well. I don't suppose you have to believe in ghosts to know that we are all haunted, all of us, by things we can see and feel and guess at, and many more things that we can't.

Mange sider ved mors liv og død kommer til å forbli et mysterium, men mens jeg lå der i sengen og sorterte minnene, var det én ting som sto klart for meg: selv i sine ville stunder, når hun så fyrverkerier eksplodere og håret hennes sto til alle kanter, elsket mamma meg.

Den har tilhørt bestefar, sa hun, og glattet på seddelen med de slanke fingrene sine. Han likte papirpenger - hadde for vane å bruke dem som bokmerker. Det er over tredve år siden han døde, men fremdeles finner jeg alle slags sedler stukket inn mellom bladene i bøkene hans.

As the sunlight raced across the brilliant Savannah sky, the day unfolded like a beautiful yet painfully wrapped gift. Momma had left this world and set herself free, and in doing so, she had set me free too. As much as I missed her and wished I could hear her laughter one more time, I believed she was out there in the big bright somewhere, watching me, cheering for me. Loving me.

While Mrs. Odell, Oletta, and Aunt Tootie talked about peach pies, what to add to the grocery list, and how quickly the summer was coming to end, I sat quietly and listened as their chatter lifted into the air, gilding all four corners of the kitchen. And as the sweet aroma of the fresh peaches mingled with the sound of their voices, I folded the memory into myself, feeling a peace I'd never before known. When

I'm fascinated with antiques," Miz Goodpepper said, bathing in a pool of soft light from the window. "I find there's a sweet sorrow in object that have slipped away from their original owners.

A collection tells the story of the collector. A collection is a shoring up against the things that have gone missing. So much goes missing.

Memories haunt. So do fears that you don't know half the things you are supposed to know since your name now sits on the jackets of some books. I had come to books in autodidact fashion, with a handful of workshops tossed in. What course could I teach? What were to be the rules? From what hollow in what bone was I to extract the necessary charm, the more necessary authority? I had no mystique and no defense against my own uncertainty and yet months of indecision melted into yes.

Memories of past events, traumas, and mistakes live on in our minds and affect how we react to our circumstances today. It may not be a fear of dogs; it may be something more horrific—but a memory can hold you captive, influencing your thinking and the decisions you make.

(D)reams are like that: they go in and out of memories and scenes, but they're never real. They're never real, and I hate them because they aren't.

My dog Ginger passed away

Everything worth having can be carried in your heart.

What I was going to miss the most, though, were just everyday things that weren't planned at all.......That's the kind of fun that doesn't sound like much when you tell it, but I would miss it on the farm. -Tom, The Midnight Fox/Chapter 2