Quotes About Loss

Holidays pain your soul so Anne you always think where you've been and who with every year counting back and when they're gone like this year the ache won't stop.

There is a very easy way to return from a casino with a small fortune: go there with a large one.

I didn't reach out, and she was gone.

With life came loss. The war and the years since had taught her that. There's be sadness in her life to come, as well as happiness. Even the most blessed lives had both. She'd live them as they came.

We're all bits that the war didn't take, Flinty thought, gazing at the stranger's back. But those left behind had a right to know more about the beast who'd chewed their lives and spat the remnants out.

You know every story, every wound, every memory. Their whole life's happiness is wrapped up in you... every single second. Don't you get it? Look down the road to her wedding. I'm in a room alone with her, fixing her veil, fluffing her dress, telling her no woman has ever looked so beautiful. And my fear is she'll be thinking, "I wish my mom was here.

When the love of your life dies, the problem is not that some part of you dies too, which it does, but that some part of you is still alive.

Loss isn't an absence after all. It is a presence. A strong presence right next to me. I look at it. It doesn't look like anything, that's what is so strange. It just fits in.

Loss isn't an absence after all. It is a presence.

During this period I feel as if some part of myself has been banished to another part of the world.I feel as if I cannot live my life to the full and feel everything I'm capable of feeling unless I have this love. The pleasure goes from me; the delight goes. Nothing means anything.

I've never seen grief like it. Grief like that, it's like an animal. She's not eating. She's not sleeping. She's whimpering. She's sluggish. She's not herself

Can anyone understand how it is to have lived in the White House and then, suddenly, to be living alone as the President's widow?

He woke in the dimity light of dusk to owl song and found her gone. Far across the valley the keen, yearning song of a solitary vixen called to his blood. The world turned.

Did she know, this woman who found rest on the peace of wild things, how the swan, who offered her body as soft pillow, had once been a maiden, caught in a rainstorm, crouched by the water in shelter of bushes, mistaken by her lover out hunting in twilight, who, seeing only her white petticoat thought her a swan and shot? Did she understand how, rather than falling, her wild soul had risen into evening light and flight in the form of a wild swan?

she had placed her husband's cell phone, fully charged, inside the casket . . . and that she had called and left him messages for months after.

I wrote the song For A Dancer for a friend of mine who died in a fire. He was in the sauna in a house that burned down, so he had no idea anything was going on. It was very sad.

The world is made of more than particles. It's made of things you can't hold in your hand, like fear, love, loss, hope, truth.

Well, this might sound stupid but I think he was my best friend. Like the other half of me. I'm so scared something might have happened to him when he went back. I miss him so much sometimes I look at windows and I want to just walk right through them -- like press myself through the glass. I want their sharp edges to fragment me.

She left behind her giant M, she's not getting my cabinet" -Toby

Where are they now? she thought. Her iPod, her iPhone, her iPad, the I-ness of her life? Her mind stretched around in its memories, searching for her things: She saw her phone on the hotel bedside table in Paris; her iPad in her Louis Vuitton urban satchel; her iPod slipping from her pocket in the restaurant, the night before she ran away.

Whatever they were, she sat on the kerb, folded them tight in her fist, and the sobs gashed their way through her chest, surging against the flesh of her face, bursting out through her mouth and into the rain.

Death is ear-splitting, it's shattering with absence; over time, it's quieter.

There's no such thing as this baby, this toddler, this little person, because it's quicksilver, there's no such thing as anybody. We shouldn't have children, it's impossible, but if you want children, and you can't have them, then that's its own impossible. It's impossible to lose them, but it happens, it happened to my mother, it's happening all the time.

Maybe, by a certain age, we have all encountered some impossible loss, or at least the accumulation of small sufferings.