Quotes About Memories

Going to the theater is such a joyous experience. My dad would take my sister and me to plays when we were very young, like six or seven years old.

Your mother swears you were sleeping through the night by your second month, but she was feeding you some god-awful concoction of Karo syrup and condensed milk. That's got to be enough calories to stun an ox, let alone an eight-week-old." "I've seen pictures. I looked like a prize porker headed for the Washington County Fair.

You may have tangible wealth untold; Casketes of jewels and coffers of gold, Richer than I you can never be— I had a Mother who read to me. —STRICKLAND GILLIAN

I know not why there is such a melancholy feeling attached to the remembrance of past happiness, except that we fear that the future can have nothing so bright as the past.

History isn't the lies of the victors, as I once glibly assured Old Joe Hunt; I know that now. It's more the memories of the survivors, most of whom are neither victorious or defeated.

We all have chapters we would prefer unpublished.

Only those who are bereaved of all joy in this present world may take refuge in the shadows of the past.

She let him go once. Every day demands that she release him over and over again.

The reason I met my husband was because I remembered a friend's birthday. The moral of the story is: Remember people's birthdays.

But trust me, if I lived in the '80s, I would definitely be the one going to the record stores.

The death of my child was the death of my own heart.

It's no different from losing a loved one," he said. "You grieve, but then you have no choice but to go on living your life. You find a way to be happy again. It's not impossible. You just have to decide when you're ready to accept that they're gone.

And you panic just a little, wishing for one more chance at all the beautiful moments you didn't appreciate, or for one more day with the person you didn't love quite enough.

My relationship with my father was strained at best, and there were certain pivotal events that I preferred to forget altogether—events that involved my mother, which I don't really wish to go into now, but I will explain later, I promise.

Every night with good friends is a special occasion.

Standing there with him now felt like I was experiencing another death. Somehow, I had to find a way to say good-bye to him and to all of this—to bury our history deep in the ground. I reminded myself that it was impossible to go back. We weren't the same people we once were,

I think of my son. I remember him as a baby in my arms—the sweet smell of his soft head beneath my lips when I kissed him good night before setting him down in his crib.

but I don't know if peace is ever possible when you've lost a child." His words caused a swell of sadness in me because I knew he was right. I'd never stop missing my beautiful son. Not in this lifetime.

Sì. Anton used to paint when he was younger.

my share of hardships. My childhood

How long, I wondered, did we need to cling to the things that belonged to our lost loved ones? Were "things" what really mattered? It was just stuff.

How long, I wondered, did we need to cling to the things that belonged to our lost loved ones? Were "things" what really mattered? It was just stuff. The value, I supposed, was that it helped me to remember details. But there was nothing concrete about a memory. Memories—and love—exist in our hearts and minds and souls. That love travels with us wherever we go.

Hopefully, I brought people a certain joy. That will be a wonderful legacy.

I am told that the first comprehensible word I uttered as a child was 'home.'