Quotes About Loss

Grief lingers, and the ache of loss; those things don't change. But seeping into every leaf, a little guilty burns away each autumn, and falls, spinning down the river. Winter's long sleep begins, and with each spring the tree wales knowing mercifully less than it did the year before.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer, so we ended up burying him a year to the day that he was diagnosed.

It's a dark thing when the world sets no value on you and your kin, and then Death comes stalking in, in his bloody boots".

I am cold, even though the heat of early summer is adequate. I am cold because I cannot find my heart.

I miss her face, its beauty, and its beauty lost.

my mother's wits were now in an attic of her head which had neither door nor stair, or at least none that I could find.

Four men killed that day. The phrase sat up in Willie's head like a rat and made a nest for itself there

How I would like to say that I loved my father so much that I could not have lived without him, but such an avowal would be proved false in time. Those that we love, those essential beings, are removed from us at the will of the Almighty, or the devils that usurp him. It is as if a huge lump of lead were lain over the soul, such deaths, and where that soul was previously weightless, now is a secret and ruinous burden at the very heart of us.

Do you know the grief of it? I hope not. The grief that does not age, that does not go away with time, like most griefs and human matters. That is the grief that is always there, swinging a little in a derelict house, my father, my father. I cry out for him.

Something had happened to that sorrow. It had gone rancid in him, he thought; it had boiled down to something he didn't understand. The pith of sorrow was in the upshot a little seed of death.

The blood is intact in our bodies but we feel like we are bleeding into the earth.

Hunger takes away what you are. Everything we were was just nothing then.

My head is already stuffed with grief I suppose like a pomegranate with its red seeds. I can only bleed grief, having no room for more.

Thousands die everywhere always. The world don't care much, it just don't mind much. That's what I notice about it. There is that great wailing and distress and then the pacifying waters close over everything, old Father Time washes his hands. On he plods to the next place.

Grief is about two years long, they say, it is a platitude out of manuals for grievers. But we are in mourning for our mothers before even we are born.

Those that we love, those essential beings, are removed from us at the will of the Almighty, or the devils that usurp them.

guess I had no choice in the matter. Once your mother is taken from you you can't ever catch up with her again. You can't cry out 'Wait for me' when the winds turn cold under a wolf moon and she has walked far ahead of you across the grasses searching for wood.

again. 'I do remember terrible dark things, and loss, and noise, but it is like one of those terrible dark pictures that hang in churches, God knows why, because you cannot see a thing in them.' 'Mrs McNulty, that is a beautiful description of traumatic memory.

It's a dark thing when the world sets no value on you or your kin, and then Death comes stalking in, in his bloody boots.

Hunger takes away what you are.

We washed our shirts and trews and when we went out to get them off the bushes, they were as stiff as corpses in the cold. Some poor cows froze where they were standing like they had peered into the face of old Medusa. Men lost the wages of three years hence at cards. They bet their boots and then pled for the pity of the winner. The piss froze as it left our peckers and woe betide the man with an obstruction or hesitation to their shit, because soon they had a brown icicle on their arse

Other times you had a rake of our lads killed, and a rake of the old grey-suited devils, and you wouldn't know who had won the fucking thing, sure how could you tell boys?

Those that we love, those essential beings...it is as if a huge lump of lead were lain over the soul, such deaths, and where that soul was previously weightless, now is a secret and ruinous burden at the very heart of us. Because a lone person takes great comfort from her people, in the watches of the night, even the memory of them.

Lost something?' Yes, my mind.