Quotes About Loss

Saying goodbye is a little like dying.

If you have a dog, you will most likely outlive it; to get a dog is to open yourself to profound joy and, prospectively, to equally profound sadness.

In the beginning of his sleep, he cried out, "Flag!" It was not his own voice that called. It was a boy's voice. Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.

Dogs could die, and bears and deer and other people. That was acceptable, because it was remote. His father could not die. The earth might cave in under him in one vast sink-hole and he could accept it. But without Penny, there was no earth. Without him there was nothing.

Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.

Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.

I'd never indulged in feelings of loneliness. Too dangerous. I'd learned that after my mother's murder. Loneliness could swallow you up, like a disease. Make you vulnerable to anything, even a smile. But then I'd stopped being lonely. And what was more dangerous? Loneliness? Or having friends and family who could be taken from you? "Grant

I outlived all the men who raised me. I stayed young while they faded, and died from bullets and disease. Or old age. You forget so much. You forget them. Friends. Family. You put aside what can't be changed. Like death. Until something small and unexpected catches you.

But no one builds better homes than those who have lost home.

right" in the sense of homoerotic weepiness that Middle America could get behind. Of course I'm talking about "The Deer Hunter.

Since you died the house style could best be described as leaves that cling to trees too long into winter

For me elegy is a Ouija planchette something I pretend not to touch as I push it around trying to make it say what I want it to say

Grief was as individual as a fingerprint.

The heart is a repository of vanished things:

When the Self dissolves into a world of separate selves and death becomes real, love becomes a pact with grief; what is gained then is the inescapability poignant fact of individuality. There will never be another you, and I love the stubborn particularity of you because you will disappear.

attitudes about being wrong, losing money, missing out, and leaving money on the table.

U" is gone. I suppose you're aware. The 1st aeiouy to go. Up until now the other graphemes were not aeiouys. When the aeiouys start to go, Ella, writing to you turns exponentially more grueling. I will not throw in the towel, though. I trust that you won't either. I truly relish our partnership.

I hate to wake up one morning and find out she was killed in a rockslide!

This is not a happy story, it doesn't begin or end well, and the middle is equally dreadful.

She died on a windy gray day in March when the sky was full of darting crows and the world lay prostrate and defeated after winter. Peter Lake was at her side and it ruined him forever. It broke him as he had not ever imagined he could have been broken. He would never again be young, or able to remember what it was like to be young. What he had once taken to be pleasures would appear to him in his defeat as hideous and deserved punishments for reckless vanity.

No wonder Satan is furious. . . . Think of all that he had already given up. He could no longer be a prophet who could speak for God. He could no longer be a priest who would direct worship to God. He who wished to be like God has ended up the most unlike Him. In short, it was all loss and no gain.

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Abu-Jamal, serving a life-sentence now in the Pennsylvania prison, after over 29 years on death row, observes this about prison time: "Once loving relationships wither into yesterday's dust. Relatives die, their loss mourned in silent loneliness. Times, temperaments, mores change, and the caged move to outdated rhythms.

The world is running out of good places for ashes. The Jade Rabbit