Quotes About Memories

She would never forget her beautiful little boy. Never. No matter what. Not for a second. That was what she realized. You don't move past something like that—you learn to live with it. No matter how much pain you are in. You don't fight that pain. You don't push it away. You embrace it and let it become a part of you. It's the only way. The only thing more painful than remembering Matthew was the idea she might actually forget him.

She handed him an old class photograph, the color not so much fading as greening from age. Fifteen kids flanked by two teachers, one a far younger Peggy Joyce. The years had not been unkind to her, but they'd passed anyway.

Watch out for people who belong in your past. Don't let 'em back in your life." When she Googled the lyrics on her phone, it all came flooding back to her. The song was "Demon Lover" by Michael Smith.

Death teaches you that. You would give anything, forgive anything, for just one more second. . . .

The two men—Charlie was still a boy, sure, but he was now taller than his grandfather—embraced with everything they had. They both squeezed their eyes shut. That was how Pops always hugged. Nothing was held back.

If life were a movie, this was the part where you'd start the music montage. Some sappy song would be playing while they flashed to Ashley and me sharing lunch, talking, laughing, looking coy, holding hands—and ending with that first chaste kiss. That

Max emerged in the second exodus. When Grace saw her son—one sneaker lace untied, his Yu-Gi-Oh! backpack looking four sizes too big, his New York Rangers knit hat tilted to the side like a tourist's beret—the warmth rushed over anew.

The lake was hold-your-breath still, but I swore I could still hear Dad's howl of delight as he cannonballed off the dock, his knees pressed tightly against his chest, his smile just south of sane, the upcoming splash a virtual tidal wave in the eyes of his only son.

Silly thought, but there you go. Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.

Four-year-olds don't belong in dark suits. Four-year-olds belong in goalie uniforms next to their dads.       MARIO

So when did you know for sure?" she asked. "I mean, about his, uh, talents. Do you remember?" He did. Too well. "Freshman year, maybe a month into the school year, a bunch of football players decided to shave Win's head. You know how it is. They thought his hair looked too perfect, what with the straight part and the yellow blond and all that." "Right.

married Ginny," he said to Terese. "You remember her?" "Of course. I'm glad to hear you're happy, Mario." He took a beat, reassessing, calming down. "We have three kids. We keep saying we're going to buy a bigger place, but we like it here. And real estate is ridiculous in London." We stood there.

Would it be too hackneyed to wonder where it all went so wrong? Kitty's

What do you want me to say, Jess? We were together a long time. Of course there was a pang.

She frowned, again hating herself for the sentimentality, but maybe she should cut herself some slack. She tried to find the very spot where she had been standing that day, checking her bearings by using the house, moving a few feet left, then right, until she was certain, yes, this was the spot where that tender kiss took place. She

You have very few perfect moments in your life, moments you want to put in a box and stick on the top shelf so that when you're alone, you can take the box down and open it up again. That

She looked at him, shook her head. "No man has ever loved me like you did." Silence. Myron held back the "what-about-Stoner" remark.

They are stories I wrote because my friends are gone, a lot of them, and if you can't be angry about it, how the hell much did you care to begin with?

Each of us moves through life shadowed by childhood memories. We never forget. We are bent and shaped and changed by those ancient fears and hatreds. They are the mortal dreads that in a million small ways block us off or drive us toward our destiny.

I look upon those who assure me they had a 'happy childhood' as either pathological liars, or pariahs.

Urging the need for community upon American religionists is a vain enterprise; the experiential encounter with Jesus or God is too overwhelming for memories of community to abide, and the believer returns from the abyss of ecstasy with the self enhanced and otherness devalued.

We Were Soldiers Once…and Young

To Lincoln, words always mattered most. Newspaper stories lived but a single day, caricatures flamed into view and just as quickly faded, and even the most flattering photographs inevitably receded behind the thick covers of family albums. But words lived forever. Writing, Lincoln believed, was "the great invention of the world.

Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives.