Quotes About Time

June is spring, July is summer, August is autumn, and everything else is winter.

It would fill her heart to see you all here, to know you'd given up time, with all you have to do, to remember her. To say goodbye. She said to me once that she felt like she'd been nothing, a reflection of other people. She never quite understood her own worth. I hope she's looking down now and knows . . . finally . . . how loved she was.

it's always about family. The past has an irritating way of becoming the present.

Unless he reached out now, in the days that mattered, he would learn that some roads could not be refound and that true love took time and effort Ã¢â'¬Â¦ that a life lived in the glare of summer sunlight never produced a rainbow.

Love is what remains when everything else is gone. This is what I should have told my children when we left Texas. What I will tell them tonight. Not that they will understand yet. How could they? I am forty years old, and I only just learned this fundamental truth myself. Love. In the best of times, it is a dream. In the worst of times, a salvation. I

Best friends forever. They'd believed it would last, that vow, that someday they'd be old women, sitting in their rocking chairs on a creaking desk, talking about the times of their lives, and laughing...

Sooner or later, Meg, it's always about family. The past has an irritating way of becoming the present.

Memories didn't live on streets or in cities. They flowed in the blood, pulsed with your heartbeat.

some hurts were like a once-broken bone. In the right weather, they could ache for a lifetime.

He hadn't realized how time could unspool the years of your life until for a second you were fourteen again, crying from a place so deep it seemed to predate you, desperate to be whole again.

Some years June is spring, July is summer, August is autumn, and everything else is winter.

Maybe time didn't heal wounds exactly, but it gave you a kind of armor, or a new perspective. A way to remember with a smile instead of a sob. Maybe

what it felt like to curl up in bed against the same body every night for thirty years, to wake to the same loving face. He wanted to ask if love was a safe harbor or a stormy sea.

I finally learned that life is not made up of BIG moments and sudden epiphanies, but rather of tiny bits of time, some so small they pass by unnoticed.

They were at war. Time was the one luxury no one had anymore. Tomorrow felt as ephemeral as a kiss in the dark. She

Time. Hers had gone too fast. She'd only just discovered who she was.

I had forgotten how gently time passes in Paris. As lively as the city is, there's a stillness to it, a peace that lures you in. In Paris, with a glass of wine in your hand, you can just be.

Take it from me, Father. Life is over quickly, and you only regret what you didn't do.

How will I stop loving him, Mama? Will I Ã¢â'¬Â¦ forget?" Mama sighed. "Ah. That. Love doesn't fade or die, baby girl. People tell you it does, but it doesn't. If you love him now, you'll love him in ten years and in forty. Differently, maybe, a faded version, but he's part of you now. And you are part of him.

Maybe time didn't heal wounds exactly, but it gave you a kind of armor, or a new perspective. A

They might not even have tomorrow. She hated that her first time would be bathed in sorrow, steeped in a sense of having already lost what they'd just found, but that was the world now. One

Some things in life, though, couldn't be gone in search of. They simply had to be waited for. Like the weather. You could look out on the horizon and see a bank of black storm clouds. That did not guarantee rain tomorrow. It might just as easily dawn bright and clear. There was no damn way to tell. All you could do was keep moving and live you life.

reminded her how precious time was, how fleeting. How sometimes life snipped the edges off your good intentions and left you with no second chance to say what really mattered.

Soon, the crops would be planted. By July, the corn would be as tall as a man and go on forever. By October, the leaves would be brownish gold and thin as paper,and when the early winter winds came, the rustling stalks would sound like a hive of bees. That was the cycle of the land, the measure of time. Everything in her daddy's world had been tacked to seasons. Things came and went and lived and died according to sunlight.