death-of-a-loved-one

Tears are another river that takes us home. We become alive with tears. There isn__ a chance to return to sleep when we are weeping.

People in the real world always say, when something terrible happens, that the sadness and loss and aching pain of the heart will __essen as time passes,_ but it isn__ true. Sorrow and loss are constant, but if we all had to go through our whole lives carrying them the whole time, we wouldn__ be able to stand it. The sadness would paralyze us. So in the end we just pack it into bags and find somewhere to leave it.

Pulling through is what people do around here. There is a kind of bravery in their lives that isn__ bravery at all. It is automatic, unflinching, a mix of man and machine, consuming and unquestionable obligation meeting illness move for move in a giant even-steven game of chess _ an unending round of something that looks like shadowboxing, though between love and death, which is the shadow? __veryone admires us for our courage,_ says one man. __hey have no idea what they__e talking about.___ourage requires options,_ the man adds.__here are options,_ says a woman with a thick suede headband. __ou could give up. You could fall apart.___o you can__. Nobody does. I__e never seen it,_ says the man. __ell, not really fall apart.

They say, the sun brings life to the world. The sun will rise and look is it not a corpse? Everything is dead and there are corpses everywhere. Just people and around them silence__that is the world! "Love one another"__who said that? Whose command is that? The pendulum swings unfeelingly, antagonistically. It's two o'clock at night. Her slippers are standing by her bed, as if waiting for her.... No, seriously, when they take her away tomorrow, what shall I do?

In a time like that, the past meets you wherever you turn. The days do not use their own hours and minutes, they find ones you have lived through with the person you are missing.

I__ give in to the grief but make sure I wasn__ loud enough to draw attention from those who think words will make me feel better.

It's a harrowing experience to see death approaching in haste towards you, what is hell but confronting your own mortality

The steel door of the incinerator went up and the muted hum of the eternal fire became a red roaring. The heat lunged out at them like a famished beast. Then Rahel's Ammu was fed to it. Her hair, her skin, her smile. Her voice. They way she used Kipling to love her children before putting them to bed: We be of one blood, though and I. Her goodnight kiss. The way she held their faces steady with one hand (squashed-cheeked, fish-mouthed) while she parted and combed their hair with the other. The way she held knickers out for Rahel to climb into. Left leg, right leg. All this was fed to the beast, and it was satisfied.She was their Ammu and their Baba and she had loved them Double.

It hurts when they're gone. And it doesn't matter if it's slow or fast, whether it's a long drawn-out disease or an unexpected accident. When they're gone the world turns upside down and you're left holding on, trying not to fall off.

Lay downYour tired & weary head my friend.We have wept too longNight is fallingAnd you are only sleepingWe have come to this journey's endIt's time for us to goTo meet our friendsWho beckon usTo jump againFrom across a distant skyA C-130 comes to carry usWhere we shall all wait For the final green lightIn the light ofThe pale moon risingI see far on the horizonInto the world of night and darknessFeet and knees togetherTime has ceasedBut cherished memories still lingerThis is the way of life and all thingsWe shall meet againYou are only sleeping.

I still loved Granny. It flowed out of my chest. With Granny gone, where would my love go?

You see, Katie," Pastor Ron said, "that__ what makes faith so tough to grasp, but also makes it so wonderful. It__ all about believing in something__hether it__ God, or other people, or even yourself__hen you__e got nothing else to go on. Nothing but a little voice inside telling you it__ more than a hunch.

I am always saddened by the death of a good person. It is from this sadness that a feeling of gratitude emerges. I feel honored to have known them and blessed that their passing serves as a reminder to me that my time on this beautiful earth is limited and that I should seize the opportunity I have to forgive, share, explore, and love. I can think of no greater way to honor the deceased than to live this way.

Not only had my brother disappeared, but--and bear with me here--a part of my very being had gone with him. Stories about us could, from them on, be told from only one perspective. Memories could be told but not shared.

On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend's life also, in our own, to the world.

He Is Not DeadI cannot say, and I will not sayThat he is dead. He is just away.With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,He has wandered into an unknown landAnd left us dreaming how very fairIt needs must be, since he lingers there.And you__h you, who the wildest yearnFor an old-time step, and the glad return,Think of him faring on, as dearIn the love of There as the love of Here.Think of him still as the same. I say,He is not dead__e is just away.

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.From an Irish headstone

But she wasn__ around, and that__ the thing when your parents die, you feel like instead of going in to every fight with backup, you are going into every fight alone.