Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
Anytime a curtain closes forever, that's always sad news.
You left and I cried tears of blood. My sorrow grows. Its not just that You left. But when You left my eyes went with You. Now, how will I cry?
I have two children who died before reaching 30, so who am I to complain about being alive?
As someone who has lived the nightmare of losing a child, I know that the enormous hole left behind remains forever.
The day breaks not, it is my heart.
His claim to his home is deep, but there are too many ghosts. He must absorb without being absorbed.
She's a tear that hangs inside my soul forever.
As the plane got closer to Miami, I had this terrible feeling he was dying. Maybe he was telling me that he was going. I felt anger, panic, despair and helplessness.
It was a fine cry - loud and long - but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.
The heart overwhelmed by grief knows no rest.
The death of my daughter is a subject I talk about briefly because there is nothing more tragic.
When you have kids, you never think of burying your own child.
Misery is a match that never goes out.
Mourning never ends for those who've faced unimaginable losses.
The loss of young first love is so painful that it borders on the ludicrous.
A weeping woman is a bucket with no bottom.
Losing a child is probably the singular most horrible thing.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
I wasn't prepared for the fact that grief is so unpredictable. It wasn't just sadness, and it wasn't linear. Somehow I'd thought that the first days would be the worst and then it would get steadily better - like getting over the flu. That's not how it was.
The perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.
Long for me as I for you, forgetting, what will be inevitable, the long black aftermath of pain.
I am my heart's undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.
Tears may be dried up, but the heart - never.
