Quotes About Loss

This was the last evening that she should breathe the same air with him or gaze on the starry sky and the deep sea. An eternal night, without a thought or a dream, awaited her.

His wedding morning would bring death to her, and she would change into the foam of the sea.

I kept hearing that better to have loved and lost bullshit. Another falsehood. Trust me, it is not better. Don't show me paradise and then burn it down

Sad songs are a safe hurt. It's a diversion. It's controlled. And maybe it helps you imagine that real pain will be like that. But it's not. You can't prepare for real pain. You just have to let it rip you apart.

My great-grandfather, Dad often told us, saved his best wines for special occasions. He was killed when the Nazis invaded Paris. The Nazis ended up drinking his wine. Lesson: you never wait. When I was growing up, we used only the good plates. We used the best linens. We drank out of Waterford crystal. When my father died, his wine cellar was nearly empty.

It's not the dead even. They're gone. Nothing you can do about that. It's what's left behind - the echo. These woods you're walking through. There are some old timers who think a sound echoes here forever. Makes sense when you think about it. That Billingham kid. I'm sure he screamed. He screams, it echoes, just bounces back and forth, the sound getting smaller and smaller, but never entirely disappearing. Like a part of his is still calling out, even now.

Todavía oigo aquella sandez del «mejor haber amado y haber perdido». Otra mentira más. Créanme si les digo que no es mejor. Que no me enseñen el paraíso para cerrarlo después.

We have something in common now." Augie looks a question at him. "Well, something horrible," Tom continues. "We've both lost children. I know your pain now. It's like . . . it's like being members of the worst club imaginable.

The pain flooded in again. It was always there, of course. Through the shaking hands and slapping of the backs, the grief stayed by his side, tapping Griffin on the shoulder, whispering in his ear, reminding him that they were partners for life.

Paige has to come to it on her own. Don't you see that? I didn't 'let her go'"—Ingrid spat out the words—"because I don't love her anymore. I let her go because she's gone—and we can't bring her back. Do you hear me? We can't. Only she can.

I'm sorry, my dead wife mouthed.

Death sucks. Death sucks, mostly because it forces those who stay behind to survive. Death isn't merciful enough to take you too. Instead, death constantly jams down your throat the awful lesson that life does indeed go on, no matter what.

Purging was part of his grieving process—

I always assumed I'd find love like that. But now I don't want it. It isn't healthy. It makes you too dependent. You smile when they smile. You laugh when they laugh. But when they stop laughing, so do you. And when they die, a part of you dies too.

The young family who'd moved into the Miller home had gotten rid of the Millers' trademark overflowing flower boxes. The new owners of the Davis place had ripped out those wonderful shrubs Bob Davis had worked on every weekend. It all reminded Myron of an invading army ripping down the flags of the conquered.

Tragedy sort of works this way: Once it snakes its way in, it cuts down all your defenses and allows its brethren easy access to feed.

I ran down the hill. I went to your place, afraid, I don't know. I just didn't know. But you were gone. I came here, to Lucy. I thought maybe you'd be hiding inside or something. I waited. But you never showed, of course. I searched for you.For years. I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I saw your face on every street, in every bar.

On the radio a rock group called the Motels were repeatedly singing the ingenious line Take the L out of lover, and it's over. Deep. Literal, but still deep. The Motels. Whatever happened to them?

I remember everything about her. The way she looked. The way she smelled. The way she'd come home from her job so tired she could barely put her feet up. I don't think I've talked about her five times in the past twenty years. But I think about her every day. I think about why she gave me up. And I think about why I still miss her.

Grief can be inordinately selfish.

They say that happens a lot with the elderly that ? to paraphrase Springsteen ? two hearts become one. When one dies, the other follows.

Death is so close, always, a breath away, so perhaps it was wise to introduce children to that concept at an early age. Maya filled her head with inanities like this as she watched Joe's casket disappear into the earth. Distract yourself. That was the key. Get through it. The black dress itched. Over the past decade, Maya had been to a hundred-plus funerals, but this was the first time she'd been obligated to wear black. She hated it. To

I'm talking to you now not as a United States senator but as a grieving father. A grieving father who just wants to let his son rest in peace. I'm asking you to please stop what you're doing.' The pain in the man's voice was raw. Myron had not expected this. 'I'm not sure I can, Senator.

She started playing what-if, wondering what would happen if her father suddenly materialized in the seat next to her, if she told him that she knew everything and that he had been given a second chance, what would her father do? Death was probably a great educator.