Best 330 quotes in «death of a loved one quotes» category

Death never pierces the heart so much as when it takes someone we love; cleaving the heart they held with their passing.

Death” is never an end, but a To Be Continued...

Death is the destroyer and giver of sense.

Death is tough for the people left behind on earth.

Death is the great incorruptible corruptor

Death was a smokescreen between Life and myself.

Death will paint everything a different shade of remorse. You’ll feel guilty that you’re still breathing. But you can’t stop. You’ll feel guilty for wanting to laugh again. And it will be awful the first time that you do. You’ll feel guilty for just about everything at first. And someday, at some point, you’ll start to feel guilty . . . for forgetting to feel guilty. But of all Heaven’s lessons, guilt isn’t one of them. You don’t need to hold on to it. It doesn’t need to be a practice and it shouldn’t be your life. Heaven would never approve of your guilt. Because Heaven has no regrets.

Death is never easy when you know the people doing the dying.

Death is nothing but absence of physical presence

Death pulls people from our spaces so often and we accept it as our final payment for having been here and having lived, however big or small. We don’t always have time to notice how things have changed in the absence of some of them. But then death pulls away someone we love, and we find that time. In here, we notice everything; growing grass and fingernails, and songs that end in a minor key. We are too sad to do anything else but watch a clock, applying seconds, minutes, and hours to the trauma and the lacerations. Time, the forever healer, they say. We find the time to wonder how everyone else is moving on, around our paralyzed selves. Ourselves unsure of roads and trees and birds and things. It all blurs and words aren’t words anymore. We find the time to attempt to figure a way to rethink everything we thought about this world and why we came to it.

Death wasn't a movie where the pretty star faded away with a touch of pale makeup and every hair in place.

Deep down a broken heart, all the sadness one can bear is misery.

Deep down inside we always seek for our departed loved ones

Do not live because of the fear of death. Live because of the fear of the death of the real reason why you live. Death is no respecter of persons. Death can come when we have not even given him our attention. Death doesn't mind that you are in tension and even when you in the mid of doing something at his arrival, you shall go with nothing. The most important thing to death is to take you at a sudden. Mind your time then! Mind your true purpose! And mind the real reasons why you wake up each day and retire when the sun sets! Life is once, live it well!

Don’t be so hard on yourself, You’re doing the same thing, trying to reconcile all the moms that Mom ever was - The one you wanted, the one she was when you needed her and she was there, the one she was when she didn’t understand. Most of us don’t live our lives with one, integrated self that meets the world, we’re a whole bunch of selves. When someone dies, they all integrate into the soul - the essence of who we are, beyond the different faces we wear throughout our lives. You’re just hating the selves you’ve always hated, and loving the ones you’ve always loved. It’s bound to mess you up.

Don't cry for the horses That life has set free A million white horses Forever to be Don't cry for the horses Now in God's hands As they dance and they prance To a heavenly band They were ours as a gift But never to keep As they close their eyes Forever to sleep Their spirits unbound On silver wings they fly A million white horses Against the blue sky Look up into heaven You'll see them above The horses we lost The horses we loved Manes and tails flowing They Gallop through time They were never yours They were never mine Don't cry for the horses They will be back someday When our time has come They will show us the way

Do we leave the dead behind or do we take them with us? I think we take them with us. They accompany us. They remain with us, if in another form. We have to learn to live with them and their deaths.

Dreams, just dreams, it's all illusion

Dry fingers of decaying branches protruded upward, above what was left of the canopy of green. They rattled like skeletal bones, grasping for a final breath from the last silvery clouds of evening that slowly drifted by.

Each man lives in his own universe and when he dies the world is over

Eine Rose gebrochen, ehe der Sturm sie entblättert.

Ein toter Mensch ist wie ein Saal, in dem ein Fest zu Ende gegangen ist. Ein rauschendes Fest. Die Menschen sind alle fort um irgendwo anders weiterzufeiern. Und schau, so ein leerer Saal hat doch was ganz Friedliches. Die Luftschlangen, die Gläser, die Musikinstrumente und die Stille.

El doctor se inclinó muy cerca para oírlo, porque la voz era solo un murmullo.«Busque a Violette, dígale que la amo»,agregó Étiene Relais antes de que el otro le vaciara un frasquito en la boca. En Cuba, en ese mismo instante, Violette Boisier se golpeó la mano derecha contra la fuente de piedra donde había ido a buscar agua y el ópalo del anillo, que había usado por catorce años, se hizotrizas. Cayó sentada junto a la fuente, con un grito atascado y la mano apretada en el corazón. Adèle, que estaba con ella, creyó que la había mordido un alacrán. «Étienne, Étienne...», balbuceó Violette deshecha en lágrimas.

Emma hoped Ty was unconscious, she hoped he was seeing none of this. He would wake up eventually, and the horror of what he would wake up to drove her forward.

Es la primera vez que se enfrenta con la muerte. Decide que no podrán ser amigas. La ausencia del Maestro es una burla. Las preguntas quedarán sin respuesta. Su cariño sin destino. El Maestro ha muerto. La soledad está más viva que nunca.

Even if you are alive somewhere, the absence of the other person who used to be there beside you obliterates your presence. Everything in the room, even the stars in the sky, can disappear in a second, changing one scene for another, just like in a dream.

Eventually, decades later, when the king was dying, the queen gently ushered everybody out into the corridor, closed the door to the royal bedchamber, and got into bed with her husband. She started singing to him. They laughed. He was short of breath, but he could still laugh. They asked each other, Is this silly? Is this...pretentious? But they both knew that everything there was to say had been said already, over and over, across the years. And so the king, relieved, released, free to be silly, asked her to sing him a song from his childhood. He didn't need to be regal anymore, he didn't need to seem commanding or dignified, not with her. They were, in their way, dying together, and they both knew it. It wasn't happening only to him. So she started singing. They shared one last laugh - they agreed that the cat had a better voice than she did. Still, she sang him out of the world.

Every living thing dies, Art. That’s why we cherish it while we have it. That’s why we respect the decisions our loved ones make for themselves. That’s why we love, and why we care, and why we hurt. Because everything dies.

Everyone for whom I would have cried has already died.

Everyone wants to be the one to get the mattress pad. ... We can do this. We all love to do. The more we can do, the less we have to sit and stare at trees and think about the transient nature of life." - 131

Every second of everyday I still love them, and I won’t believe they are dead until I see it for myself.

Fate did not grant him the privilege to see our children reach adulthood or the pleasure to witness our wrinkles writing stories on our faces, but in the time we were allowed, we knew our treasures.

For no soul can ever be replaced, and death claims a beauty and a magnificence that will always be missed.

For what seemed a long time Mat knelt there with his father's dead wrist in his hand, while his mind arrived and arrived and yet arrived at that place and time and that body lying still on the soiled and bloodied stones.

Frances reflecting on sudden death of husband: It made her wish that humans could write the script for their own endings, so that they could be approached with grace and preparedness , like wedding anniversaries and christenings.

Grief can destroy you—or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. Or you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn’t allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it. But when it’s over and you’re alone, you begin to see it wasn’t just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can’t get off your knees for a long time, you’re driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. “And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life.

Grief is NOT a mental illness or an emotional disorder. Anyone who tells you otherwise has never experienced it for themselves.

...gripping the rim of the sink you claw your way to stand and cling there, quaking with will, on heron legs, and still the hot muck pours out of you. (p. 27)

Grief is one big, gaping hole, isn’t it? It’s everywhere and all consuming. Some days you think you can’t go on because the only thing waiting for you is more despair. Some days you don’t want to go on because it’s easier to give up than to get hurt again.

-¿Has bebido, Harry? —¿Quieres oírlo? —Tu abuelo bebía. Yo lo quería mucho. Borracho o sobrio. No hay mucha gente que pueda decir lo mismo de un padre borracho. No, no quiero oírlo. —Ya. —Y lo mismo puedo decir de ti. Te quiero. Siempre. Borracho o sobrio. Ni siquiera ha sido difícil. Aunque eras muy combativo. Te enfrentabas a la mayoría, incluido tú mismo. Pero quererte es lo más fácil que he hecho en la vida, Harry.

Has your life ever been so messed up that you wondered how you would survive another day?

He died when he was only nineteen years old. I was still a baby at the time, so I didn't remember him. Growing up, I'd always told myself that was lucky. Because you can't miss someone you don't remember. But the truth was, I did miss him.

He is gone and all we have is this world, here and now.

He Is Not Dead I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead. He is just away. With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn For an old-time step, and the glad return, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here. Think of him still as the same. I say, He is not dead—he is just away.

Help me to understand, what my grief has prevented me from seeing - within.

Her death leaves me both depleted and emboldened. That's what tragedy does to you, I am learning. The sadness and wild freedom of it all impart a strange durability. I feel weathered and detached, tucking my head against the winds and trudging forward into life.

He stopped eating and cried for days. No one was able to console him. But the sun still rose every-day and brightened the sky. The raindrops still fell, and the crops still bore grain. The world moved on, and he did, too.

He wanted to argue like this forever. This was better than nothing. There was no exhausting his anger at his father, and every word, however well intentioned or intentionally barbed, was a pull at a scab on his bloody heart. It was too late for any of this. There could ultimately be no healing. Marty had terminal cancer, and so did the two men have a cancer between them. They were terminal together, as father and son. They remained, momentarily exhausted, but it was really only that quiet between lightning and thunder as sound lags behind speed. The lightning had cracked the ground already, you just hadn't heard it yet.

He was dead. No trace of pain, no sufferings, no victimization.

His absence seemed a solid thing, a burden I must carry in addition to my grief... Yet I knew I would continue to live. Sometimes that knowledge seemed the worst part of my loss.