Quotes About Loss

That's the thing about people you loved. They disappeared on you. I didn't know much at the ripe old age of fifteen and a half. But, for better or worse, I knew that.

I have to admit, I wasn't close to my old man when he was alive. He was hardly ever home. But now that he was gone, and I was back in Pittsburgh, I thought about him all the time. I felt closer to the guy since he'd been buried than I ever did when he was walking around above ground. I realized how much I loved him.

Heroin spread that soft blanket over everything. But once the blanket was ripped off, it took a layer of skin with it, leaving nothing but nerve ends screaming in the breeze.

Our language has lost its ability to convey the spontaneous.

Corre por mi memoria atrapadas por las brumas del olvido, las largas borracheras de papá

La ausencia de las hermanas Gómez me dio duro, las extrañé más de lo normal, eso causó en mí un dolor difícil de superar.

Hoy, aún no sé dónde llevarle unas flores a su tumba.

You aren't having something taken from you. Trust me, I know that feeling and this is not it. You are surrendering something. You fear it, so you'll just let it go. Throw it away like it means nothing when it's obvious it means everything.

At fourteen you don't need sickness or death for tragedy.

The trouble is, as you get older, the people you like die and are not replaced with others, so that it is easily possible to end up with no one at all to talk to, or at least, no one you would want to hear responding to whatever it is you might have ended up saying.

Sadness is a feeling of loss. There is something one wanted, and one doesn't have it—or there is a way one wanted things to be, and things aren't that way. That is sadness. Instead, you feel rootlessness.

We are the wreck of what we have been, and the place of our own future demise,

For where he had been the largeness of her life, now his loss was; his loss was, and the worth of what he had been: those two things together became the core

When the person you love has died, any indication that they once lived is received gratefully, or alternatively, you want to pretend that nothing good has ever taken place in the world.

Your life has been made up of chambers, a series of chambers, so the interlocutor said, his hand on my arm — and in each chamber it is difficult to remember exactly what it was like to be in the previous room. You can remember that certain things happened when you were a child. But, what it was like to be there, to be a child, it really is lost to you. Our world is a difficult succession of losses, vaguely remembered, vaguely enshrined.

Beauty belongs to the beloved who returns the gaze, in whose eyes we see the sun. But in this . . . beauty, in the mutual gaze, also lies the beginning of terror --awe, idealization, overstimulation, violation, loss.

I am not simply missing one child who never grew, but two of them. I always know how old they'd be. What I do not know is who I might have been, had I become their mother.

People come and go in your life. You don't get to hang onto them forever.

At a certain age, death becomes familiar to you-or a loss becomes familiar-the tragedies that are more commonplace in life.

her dearest friends were like dreams she had woken from. How had she missed so much?

Her mind circled and darted like a bird whose nest has been destroyed.

Standing at the grave, Marianne was suddenly aware of her own blindness; her dearest friends were like dreams she had woken from. How had she missed so much?

Shortly after Sarah died, I started reevaluating what I was spending time on. The push-and-pull games with Jason now seemed childish, and I felt like God wanted me to make space for bigger things.

The one thing that worries me is that with my mother gone, the voice in my head that tells me to be nice to others has been silenced forever. I fear for other people.