Quotes About Loss

Some of us did not make it. We carried their bodies far away From the cities and set their spirits free. This moment is for them—gives them nourishment Of our love to keep moving toward home.

I will see you again , is one of the names for blue-- A color beyond the human sky of mind-- One third up the ladder of blue is where we sit for grief--

Some things on this earth are unspeakable: Genealogy of the broken— A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre, Or the smell of coffee and no one there—

They lived and laughed and loved and left

There is an hour when you realize: here is what you have been given. More than this, you won't receive. And what this is, what your life has come to, will be taken from you. In time.

Later, her first intense, serious love affair, yes then she'd lost something more tangible, if undefinable: her heart? her independence? her control of, definition of, self? That first true loss, the furious bafflement of it. And never again quite so assured, confident.

The person you love best, you share the world with. When that person's gone the world remains but it isn't the same thing, it's at a distance.

Impossible not to imagine the dead observing us. Our love for them a soft, shimmering gossamar that trails behind us.

Bullshit! Li-ar! Your mother and father are dead like everybody else. Everybody is dead.

The place where you came from ain't there any more, and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out. This place you are now—inside your daddy's house—is nothing but a cardboard box I can knock down any time. You know that and always did know it. You hear me?

The challenge is, to live in a house from which meaning has departed, like air leaking from a balloon. A slow leak, yet lethal. And one day, the balloon is flat: it is not a balloon any longer. By

Great handfuls of her life were being stolen from her and she would never be able to retrieve them.

That I was sleeping at a time when my husband was dying is so horrible a thought, I can't confront it.

Legally I am a 'widow' — that is the box I must check. But beyond that — I am not sure that I ­exist.

For the widow inhabits a tale not of her own telling.

Were you wounded when your marriage collapsed? When your love collapsed? Or does love never "collapse," only just fade gradually away?

Loving our parents, we bring them into us. They inhabit us. For a long time I believed that I could not bear to live without Mom and Dad—I could not bear to "outlive" them—for to be a daughter without parents did not seem possible to me.

The things that link us deepest, we can't feel. Except if they're taken from us.

Still, I am angry with him. I am very angry with him. With my poor dead defenseless husband, I am furious as I was rarely—perhaps never—furious with him, in life. How can I forgive you, you've ruined both our lives.

In dreams sometimes it is like this. I am lying very still, my arms and legs are numb or paralyzed. There is a medical term—peripheral neuropathy. A tingling sensation in fingers and toes that moves upward bringing with it a loss of feeling, a spreading numbness, a kind of amnesia of the body.

And so you must grant to God what is God and not try to think of what you have lost, for that way is madness.

The strangeness of Time. Not in its passing, which can seem infinite, like a tunnel whose end you can't see, whose beginning you've forgotten, but in the sudden realization that something finite has passed, and is irretrievable.

It was the fate of mothers, to remember. What nobody else would know or care about. That, when they are gone, goes with them.

Traição é uma coisa dolorosa. Traição é a ferida mais profunda. Traição é o que resta do amor depois que o amor acaba.