#grief

Few of us will forget the wail of mingled grief, rage and horror which rose from the camp when the Indians returned to it and recognized their slaughtered warriors, women, and children. ↗

— John Gibbon

#children #few #forget #grief #horror

It seemed like a mistake. And mistakes ought to be rectified, only this one couldn't be. Between the way things used to be and the way they were now was a void that couldn't be crossed. I had to find an explanation other than the real one, which was that we were no more immune to misfortune than anybody else, and the idea that kept recurring to me...was that I had inadvertently walked through a door that I shouldn't have gone through and couldn't get back to the place I hadn't meant to leave. Actually, it was other way round: I hadn't gone anywhere and nothing was changed, so far as the roof over our heads was concerned, it was just that she was in the cemetery. ↗

— William Maxwell

#change

The mystery of death, the riddle of how you could speak to someone and see them every day and then never again, was so impossible to fathom that of course we kept trying to figure it out, even when we were unconscious. ↗

— Francine Prose

#loss #death

The train blows, just when I was forgetting. Forgetting that I am here alone. And I wonder if those cars got held up by its passing, just as I have yours. ↗

— Kellie Elmore

#dying #grief #grieving #quotes #death

When Jesus tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is 'acquainted with Grief', we listen, for that also is an Acquaintance of our own. ↗

— Emily Dickinson

#god #grief #jesus #religion #sorrow

The depth of the feeling continued to surprise and threaten me, but each time it hit again and I bore it...I would discover that it hadn't washed me away. ↗

— Anne Lamott

#grief #faith

The ticking of the clock has gotten so loud." - 74 ↗

— Robin Romm

#death-of-a-loved-one #grief #death

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. ↗

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

#funeral #grief #love #mourning #poem

Pruned my subconscious. Discovered new shoots. ↗

— Sally Jo Martine

#contemporary-fairytale #fiber-art #grief #illustrated-fable #inspiration

Parables, yes. We here are to lead life with woe. Tasting bitter. the Tai Chi instructor ↗

— Lynne Sharon Schwartz

#grief #parables #sorrow #tai-chi #life