Quotes About Loss

My mom says kids only need one parent. She says if my dad doesn't care enough to see me, it's his loss, not mine.

Found and lost and found again, lost in plain sight, pressed to his back, her feet clasped in his hands. What made something precious? Losing it and finding it.

Lydia is dead.

She'll pause over a peppermint, still twisted in cellophane, and wonder if it's significant, if it had meant something to Lydia, if it was just overlooked and discarded. She knows she'll find no answers. For now, she watches the figure in the bed, and her eyes fill with tears. It's enough.

warming them again with your heat. You touch the curves and hollows of every detail you have, memorizing them, reciting them once more though you already know them in your bones. Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?

She glanced at her brothers, at her mother, still in her bathrobe on their tree lawn, and thought, They have literally nothing but the clothes on their backs.

And some people chide her for coming too late. One older woman—a Choctaw woman, whose granddaughter had been taken—looked at Margaret for a long time with weary eyes, then clicked her teeth.

When are you ever done with the story of someone you love?....Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?

Now she thought of the fly landing daintily in the pool of resin. Perhaps it had mistaken it for honey. Perhaps it hadn't seen the puddle at all. By the time it had realised its mistake, it was too late. It had flailed, and then it had sunk, and then it had drowned.

At bedtime, Nath and Lydia brushed their teeth sociably at the sink, taking turns to spit, saying goodnight as if it were any other night. It was too big to talk about, what had happened. It was like a landscape they could not see all at once; it was like the sky at night, which turned and turned so they couldn't find its edges. It would always feel too big. He pushed her in. And then he pushed her out. All her life, Lydia would remember one thing. All his life, Nath would remember another.

Facebook group using the hashtag #ourmissinghearts,

What a job, clearing the homes of the dead, piling whole lives into garbage bins and lugging them to the curb.

It struck her then, as if someone had said it aloud: her mother was dead, and the only thing worth remembering about her, in the end, was that she had cooked. Marilyn thought uneasily of her own life, of hours spent making breakfasts, serving dinners, packing lunches into neat paper bags.

As if memory were a bead that might spring from her fingers, clatter to the floor, roll into a crack and disappear.

He can't know what it was like, not the first time, not the last. He can guess, but he won't ever know, not really. What it was like, what she was thinking, everything she'd never told him. Whether she thought he'd failed her, or whether she wanted him to let her go. This, more than anything, makes him feel that she is gone.

What it was like, what she was thinking, everything she'd never told him. Whether she thought he'd failed her, or whether she wanted him to let her go. This, more than anything, makes him feel that she is gone.

This was what would haunt Mrs. McCullough most: that Mirabelle hadn't cried out when Bebe had reached into the crib and lifted her up and taken her away.

simply went on as if she'd never existed. As he stands there, he knows the photos

he forgets her voice sometimes; when he tries to summon it, it slips away like a shadow dissolving in the dark.

e pegou no diário que a mãe lhe dera no Natal. Até que enfim acontecera algo importante, algo que devia registar. Mas não sabia como explicar o que se passara, como tudo mudara num único dia, como alguém que amava tanto podia estar ali num minuto e, no minuto seguinte ter desaparecido.

The same place people went when they died, where everything went: on, away, out of your life.

O que tornava algo precioso? Perder e encontrar.

Kuruyan bir deniz gibiyim bazan. Y?ld?zlar? sönmü? bir gök gibiyim. ?ncilerimi sokakta da??tt?m. Kendimi öylesine verdim ki sana, kelimeler beni terkettiler.

Çok zaman kaybettim. Çok zaman ve biraz da ümit. Ya?amak bu galiba...