Quotes About Loss

Spend all your love on her now. Forget not the hands, though spotted, The hair, though thinning, The eyes, though dim, For they are a part of you. And when they are gone, a part of you is gone. On the Anvil

Davidson, I Called Him Roosk, He Called Me Dad: A Collection of Thoughts About a Father's Faith, Love, and Grief After Losing His Son (privately printed), 36–37. CHAPTER 11: BLIND INTERSECTIONS

Are you angry with God? Tell him. Disgusted with God? Let him know. Weary of telling people you feel fine when you don't? Tell the truth. My friends Thomas and Andrea Davidson did. A stray bullet snatched their fourteen-year-old son, Tyler, out of their lives. Tom writes:

A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself.

Alive to the loving past She conjures her own. Nothing is wholly lost— Sun on the stone. And lilacs in their splendor Like lost friends Come back through grief to tell her Love never ends.

How cruel memory is, forgetful memory that drops whole lives out without a qualm!

Death comes by installments but sometimes the first installments can be very steep, perhaps much more painful to those around them than to the person

We can accept death. It is the dying that is not and never will be acceptable. For us who have to witness dying, it must always feel as if the very fabric of life were being torn apart.

For of course one is never safe when in love. Growth is demanding and may seem dangerous, for there is loss as well as gain in growth. But why go on living if one has ceased to grow? And what more demanding atmosphere for growth than love in any form, than any relationship which can call out and requires of us our most secret and deepest selves?

one is never safe when in love. Growth is demanding and may seem dangerous, for there is loss as well as gain in growth. But why go on living if one has ceased to grow? And what more demanding atmosphere for growth than love in any form, than any relationship which can call out and requires of us our most secret and deepest selves?

I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life.

We love and lose in China, we weep on England's moors, and laugh and moan in Guinea, and thrive on Spanish shores. We seek success in Finland, are born and die in Maine. In minor ways we differ, in major we're the same.

I had given up some youth for knowledge, but my gain was more valuable than the loss

Soft you day, be velvet soft, My true love approaches, Look you bright, you dusty sun, Array your golden coaches. Soft you wind, be soft as silk My true love is speaking. Hold you birds, your silver throats, His golden voice I'm seeking. Come you death, in haste, do come My shroud of black be weaving, Quiet my heart, be deathly quiet, My true love is leaving.

We are missing Michael. But we do know we had him, and we are the world.

This bed yawns beneath the weight of our absent selves.

I find it very difficult to let a friend or beloved go into that country of no return. I answer the heroic question, Death, where is thy sting? with It is here in my heart, and my mind, and my memories.

Before he could bring his lips together, his teeth fell, no, actually his teeth jumped, out of his mouth.

When I find myself filling with rage over the loss of a beloved, I try as soon as possible to remember that my concerns and questions should be focused on what I learned or what I have yet to learn from my departed love. What legacy was left which can help me in the art of living a good life?

Death of a beloved flattens and dulls everything. Connections do not adhere so closely, and important events lose some of their glow.

Don't lose what you had to get something which just may not work.

My sorrow at leaving was confined to a gloom at separating from Bailey for a month (we had never been parted), the imagined loneliness of Uncle Willie (he put on a good face, though at thirty-five he'd never been separated from his mother) and the loss of Louise, my first friend. I wouldn't miss Mrs. Flowers, for she had given me her secret word which called forth a djinn who was to serve me all my life: books.

we had been each other's home and center for seventeen years. He could die if he wanted to and go off to wherever dead folks go, but I, I would be left without a home.

Death to the young is more than that undiscovered country; despite its inevitability, it is a place having reality only in song or in other people's grief.