She had dreams that shamed her in the morning, dreams where Ronan gave her a white powdered cake, yet spoke in Arin's voice. I made this for you, he said. Do you like it? The powder was so fine that she inhaled its sweetness, but always woke before she could taste. Marie Rutkoski
It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a...
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Colette
My sister will die over and over again for the rest of my life. Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving Bailey because I will never stop loving...
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Jandy Nelson
But grief makes a monster out of us sometimes .. . and sometimes you say and do things to the people you love that you can't forgive yourself for.
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Melina Marchetta
Every widow wakes one morning, perhaps after years of pure and unwavering grieving, to realize she slept a good night's sleep, and will be able to eat breakfast, and doesn't hear her husband's ghost all the time, but only some of the time. Her grief...
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Jonathan Safran Foer
But what was there to say? Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a...
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Arundhati Roy
More Quotes By Marie Rutkoski
Happiness depends on being free, and freedom depends on being courageous.
She turned to look at him, and he was already looking at her. “I’m going to miss you when I wake up, ” she whispered, because she realized that she must have fallen asleep under the sun. Arin was too real for her imagination. He...
She’d felt it before, she felt it now: the pull to fall in with him, to fall into him, to lose her sense of self.
An emotion clamped down on her heart. It squeezed her into a terrible silence. But he said nothing after that, only her name, as if her name were not a name but a question. Or perhaps that it wasn’t how he had said it, and...
He told himself a story. Not at first. At first, there wasn’t time for thoughts that came in the shape of words. His head was blessedly empty of stories then. <span style="margin:15px; display:block"></span>War was coming. It was upon him. Arin had been born in the...
