Quotes About Loss

Las personas que disfrutan en provincias de algún tipo de consideración y que encuentran a cada paso una prueba de su importancia, no se acostumbran a esta súbita y total pérdida de su valor.

Alas! she is nothing now but a soul, a soul which beams upon her son and me; the body no longer exists; she has conquered suffering. Think what a spectacle for a father!

Death unites as well as separates; it silences all paltry feeling.

oh, you are crying! The Empire has fallen... I salute the Empire.

For a father it is hell to be without your children;

She rolled over, giving a cry that froze my heart; and I saw her dying, still looking at me without anger.

I see the enormous value of a mother's presence because I live everyday with its absence.

Experiencing that intense emotion is what helps us, ultimately, accept that our mothers are gone.

But the fact is that she went away and left us all to cope with the wreckage she left behind.

This is a reactionary rage, often fueled by a sense of deprivation and a belief the world owes something to the daughter who lost her mother too young. But underneath it is usually a deep anger toward the mother herself.

Somewhere in that hour I lost all relation to a middle ground, and I didn't regain it for what became a very long time. In

Every cause is painful, and every loss leaves us wondering how we could have acted otherwise to prevent the death. But because different causes of death provoke sufficiently different responses—anger toward suicide victims; blame for homicide, terrorism, and war; helplessness and fear with natural disasters; and hopelessness with terminal disease—the specific way a mother dies or leaves influences how her daughter will respond. Long-term

Strange, now, how after so many years my mother's model is starting to recede. Before I became a mother, I was a motherless daughter, and "motherless" always overshadowed "daughter" in that phrase. Now I'm a motherless mother, and "mother" is the word that carries most of the weight. Early loss influences me, daily, but it doesn't define me anymore.

The mother who abandons her daughter leaves a pile of questions behind: Who was she? Where is she? Why did she leave? Like the child whose mother dies, the abandoned daughter lives with a loss, but she also struggles with the knowledge that her mother is alive yet inaccessible and out of touch. Death has a finality that abandonment simply does not.

Whether she actually would have flown in to act as baby nurse or mailed me cotton balls and calamine lotion if she were alive isn't really the issue. It's the fact that I can't ask her for these things that makes me miss her all over again.

We've been lucky," he said, rising from his chair with his palm pressed against his forehead as he heard the ambulance attendants on the front path outside. "We had her four months longer than she was expected to live." Lucky? I thought, as I stood behind an emergency room curtain an hour later, holding my mother's hand and trying to press ice chips between her cracked and bloodstained lips. Could someone identify the lucky people here?

The mother who abandoned her child or took her own life leaves a daughter with the most direct access route to anger--she left me--but even the mother who falls ill and dies can be an object of blame.

It's hard to understand how we can harbor negative feelings toward someone we love when the two appear to sit at such competing ends of the spectrum. But negative emotion does, which is why even daughters of abusive mothers need to mourn the loss.

I deliver her immortal true love and all I get is a snub. She's beautiful but selfish. Is that what eternal life does to a person? I think death makes life sweeter, and knowing how much I have to lose makes every day more valuable. As long as I'm here, I won't waste another day.

objects that he very rarely either looked at or thought about, though the loss of them would have caused him to go half mad with rage and chagrin.

It was as if he thought he had already lost what he was actually holding in his hands.

Years, following years, steal something every day; At last they steal us from ourselves away.

The years as they pass plunder us of one thing after another.

I am not what I was in the reign of the good Cinara. Forbear, cruel mother of sweet loves.