Quotes About Memories

There are pieces of you that will always be with me.

Jack had been the love of her life and he was gone. It seemed now that there had never been bad times, though she knew that wasn't true.

Ricordo ancora dei momenti magnifici, in cui la famiglia era al completo...non immaginavo neppure lontanamente che da lì a breve quegli idilliaci intermezzi sarebbero finiti. Eppure presto accadde.

I looked at him and said, "I've died.

Eu le accept s? m? îmbog??easc?, dar nu le las s? m? surpe. Socotesc c? cel care ÅŸtie s? se desfate în amintiri ÅŸi poate, totuÅŸi, s? le struneasc? e un adevarat b?rbat.

One night I heard my dad say to my mom: I can't help but think of the good times we're having now as being painful memories later on. And my mom saying, c'mon now honey.

suffering, even though it may have happened a long time ago, is something that is passed from one generation to the next to the next, like flexibility or grace or dyslexia. My grandfather had big green eyes, and dimly lit scenes of slaughter, blood on snow, played out behind them all the time, even when he smiled.

Later that evening I lay down in Min's empty bed upstairs and pulled her white sheet up over my head. I felt for my kneecaps and hip bones. I lay perfectly still, arms down, palms up. I closed my eyes and pretended I was floating in space, then at sea, then not floating at all.I hummed an old Beach Boys tune. In my room... Min had taught me how to play it on her guitar when we were kids.

For a few seconds I thought about my little brothers who loved connecting things with rope. I wondered if I'd ever see them again and a torpedo of sadness struck me and moved straight trough my body.

Em venen ganes de donar-li'n les gràcies, d'abraçar-la. (No, el que en realitat tinc ganes de fer és agafar-la i ballar al voltant del cobert. Quan érem petits, l'agafava darrere de l'estable dels poltres i la portava un tros a coll, corrent, rient, mentre ella em deia que no li esclafés el pit, que li'n fugiria el cor.)

Mi odjekujemo na zabilježene tuÄ'e doživljaje odjekom svo­jih vlastitih uspomena!

Svitalo je, kada je Filip stigao na kaptolski kolodvor. Dvadeset i tri godine nije ga zapravo bilo u ovom zakutku, a znao je još uvijek sve kako dolazi: i truli slinavi krovovi i jaka buka fratarskog tornja i siva, vjetrom isprana jednokatnica na dnu mra?nog drvoreda.

Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say.

We all yearn for what we have lost. But sometimes, we forget what we have.

You can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back.

I don't know what it is about food your mother makes for you, especially when it's something that anyone can make - pancakes, meat loaf, tuna salad - but it carries a certain taste of memory.

I love you every day. And now I will miss you every day.

She put one hand on mine. "When someone is in your heart, they're never truly gone. They can come back to you, even at unlikely times.

I hope you never hear those words. Your mom. She died. They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again, until finally, the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.

I think what you notice most when you haven't been home in a while is how much the trees have grown around your memories.

When death takes your mother, it steals that word forever.

You have to start over. That's what they say. But life is not a board game, and losing a loved one is never really starting over. More like continuing without.

You count the hours you could have spent with your mother, it's a lifetime in itself.

A man who can take anything will find most things unsatisfying. And a man without memories is just a shell.