Quotes About Memories

How many fucking people do you think I've watched die?" His silver eyes flashed crimson. "Over and over. That's what you do. You love them while you have them and when they're gone, you grieve. That's life. At least you had them for a while.

You're leaving me, Rainbow Girl.

The ones that screw you are burned into your brain.

Books were faithful and reliable. You could pack them up and put them in a box, run your hands over the spines, flip through their pages full of memories. They always came with you, wherever you went.

But the past was over, was behind her, was composed of ghosts and memories and dreams, and he was real and alive and there. His eyes held hers, encouraged her, willed her, compelled her. She'd given him her loyalty. She'd trusted him with her life.

Crime in Willow Creek is mostly limited to DUIs, jaywalking, and now and then a domestic violence issue. But he dealt with more than that in Pittsburgh. He's witnessed a seedy side of life, and that's what colors his thoughts and his memories.

Our mother performed in starlight.

On her last visit, the girl stole one of his family photographs right out of the frame. He thinks this means she is starting to care about him, too. Now whenever he looks at the empty frame, Sawtooth is moved to tears. He has to stare straight up at the ceiling, a loophole that prevents fluid from falling out of the eyes, thus saving a man the embarrassment of crying like a damn fool infant.

She used to suffer these intense bouts of homesickness in her own bedroom.

Mr. Oamaru has taught me that loss isn't just limited to the present; it can happen in any direction. Even what's done and vanished can be taken from you. Other, earlier memories that we made of my father sink and revert to water

Kids were for later, maybe. They could still see the children they had been.

A volte penso che il dottore giusto saprebbe aprirmi il petto e trovarla lì, mia sorella, incastonata dentro di me, come un viso su un medaglione

Collect moments not things.

One of my favorite things: good conversation with good friends.

Pour yourself a cockytale - a delicious blend of persuasive happy facts and/or marvelous memories - prepared just for you.

Visit Mandalore before Mandalore visits you. Take home some souvenirs—a slab of uj cake and a smack in the mouth.

They say that not matter how old you become, when you are with your siblings, you revert back to childhood.

If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk back up to Heaven and bring you home again.

Death and loss, they plague you. So do memories. Like the Mississippi's incessant slap against the levees, they creep up with deceptive sweetness before grabbing your heart and pulling it under.

It's not only ghosts who haunt us. Our memories follow us through life, surprising us now and again when we are forced to turn around and look behind us.

Strong winds buffet the sea oats and tall dune grasses, tossing sand and seabirds where it will, winding my sister's golden hair into sunlit spirals of silk until it becomes the only good memory I have of her -- the only memory I allowed myself to keep.

But there is room now in my heart for more memories, carved by a letting go that I could find only by coming home to a place I'd never been.

She sobbed for the loss of her father, for his words of wisdom, for his constancy, and for the little girl at his knee she could never be again.

I've always thought that old clothes are a lot like old houses; they bring the past and present together.