Quotes About Loss

You have become a monster. There is nothing left of the man I love.

grief's drink recipe is two parts tribute to the person you loved and four parts feeling sorry for yourself because you lost them.

Justice and revenge had been only part of my motivation for leaving Ashford. I'd run from my grief, from their pain, from being a shadow of another person, better loved for bitterly lost, and Ireland hadn't been nearly far enough.

The thought that she'd left him by choice had driven him mad. But she hadn't. She'd been taken. He'd loved her for all time. Before she was made. After he'd believed she was gone. Sunshine to his ice. Frost to her fever. I wished them forever. You, too, beautiful girl. The Unseelie King was gone.

Still, you'd lose them again, one way or another, because they were meant to be dead.

Yes, I have loved, Ms. Lane, and although it's none of your business, I have lost. Many things. And no, I am not like any other player in this game and I will never be like V'lane, and I get a hard-on a great deal more often than occasionally.

She'll remember, when there's nothing else left of me worth remembering.

How many fucking people do you think I've watched die?" His silver eyes flashed crimson. "Over and over. That's what you do. You love them while you have them and when they're gone, you grieve. That's life. At least you had them for a while.

Death is not seductive. It does not come silk-clad and sweet-smelling as I did for my chosen. It is lonely and cold and merciless. It takes everything from you, before it finally takes you.

You're leaving me, Rainbow Girl.

Some things are sacred. Until you act like they're not. Then you lose them

In mature continuous improvement organizations, value stream managers are sometimes given responsibility for profit and loss across the value stream

One thing Genevieve had learned was that the people you loved were never lost. They became a permanent part of your soul.

had become foreign to him.  Maybe his

Work was one of the reasons I wasn't paying enough attention when Sally died. I hadn't taken parenting classes. I hadn't had enough experience. I didn't realize a dad has to be there as much as a mom, for all the everyday things as well as the birthday parties. My ignorance cost us our child.

Granana doesn't understand what the big deal is. She didn't cry at Olivia's funeral, and I doubt she even remembers Olivia's name. Granana lost, like, ninety-two million kids in childbirth. All of her brothers died in the war. She survived the Depression by stealing radish bulbs from her neighbors' garden, and fishing the elms for pigeons. Dad likes to remind us of this in a grave voice, as if it explained her jaundiced pitilessness: "Boys. Your grandmother ate pigeons.

The Beginning of the End can feel a lot like the middle when you are living in it. When I was a kid I couldn't see any of these ridges. It was only after Swamplandia!'s fall that time folded into a story with a beginning, a middle, and an ending. If you're short on time, that would be the two-word version of our story: we fell.

Beverly once read a science magazine article about bioluminescence, the natural glow emitted by organisms like fireflies and jellyfish, but she knows the dead also give off a strange illumination, a phosphor that can permanently damage the eyes of the living. Necroluminescence - the light of the vanished. A hindsight produced by the departed body. Your failings backlit by the death of your loved ones.

Somethings you know right away to be final- when you lose your last baby tooth...Other times, you have to work out the milestone via subtraction, a math you do to assign significance, like when I figured out that I'd just blown through my last-ever wednesday with Mom on the day after she died.

There is a rustle of dead leaves. Dried sap, a branch crack, the whirring teeth of Mr. Omaru's saw. My father--my real father--is a limb that got axed off the family tree a long time ago now. My mother coughs and cleans phantom juices off her silver with a cloth doily. My sisters clench their knives.

I had to explain to him Mom's death, which was always hard to do. It felt like killing her again.

At ten, I couldn't articulate much but I got the message: to be a true historian, you had to mourn amply and well. (spoken by narrator Ava Bigtree in Swamplandia!)

I say nothing. But I keep thinking: It's been two years. What if all the Olivia-ness has already seeped out of her and evaporated into the violet welter of clouds? Evaporated, and rained down, and evaporated, and rained down. Olivia slicking over all the rivers and trees and dirty cities in the world. So that now there is only silt, and our stupid, salt-diluted longing. And nothing left of our sister to find.

On her last visit, the girl stole one of his family photographs right out of the frame. He thinks this means she is starting to care about him, too. Now whenever he looks at the empty frame, Sawtooth is moved to tears. He has to stare straight up at the ceiling, a loophole that prevents fluid from falling out of the eyes, thus saving a man the embarrassment of crying like a damn fool infant.