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Quote by Jean Kwok

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Jean Kwok
Jean Kwok

Jean Kwok is a writer whose works often focus on themes of immigration and identity. Her specific birth and death dates are unknown. more

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“When you show people a picture of a circle with a small wedge cut out of it, their eyes first go to the missing piece every time. It is easy among the doctors, the needles, and the tubes to lose sight of the beauty that was. Despite our pain, our fear, and our very real loses, we would do well to think about our many past blessing with our loved one who is now diminished. There is so much more to who we were and who we are than just the missing piece.”

DeathLossDying Quotes
Book:The Beauty of What Remains: How Our Greatest Fear Becomes Our Greatest Gift
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“You shouldn't be thinking of losing each-other at all. Don't let that loom over your happiness right now. Enjoy that easy silence with him. It is rare what you've got. But, when the time does come... it will be hard every day and it won't get easier. But... eventually, after some time, you'll find little moments, little pieces of life that remind you of him... and you'll hold them tight. It'll be like he's here with you, even though he's gone.”

LoveLossHaunting
Author:Mike Flanagan
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“So many socks. After the pair the undertaker asks for (I picture them black beneath the fold in your open casket, your toes still cold) what else to do,. Body bags of old suits, shirts still pressed, long johns, the unworn, unwashed wreckage of your closet, too many coats to keep, though I will save so many. How can I give away the last of your scent? And still, father, you have errands, errant dry cleaning to pick up-- yellow tags whose ghostly carbon tells a story where to look. One place closed for good, the tag old. One place with none of your clothes, just stares as if no one ever dies, as if you are naked somewhere, & I suppose you are. Nothing here. The last place knows exactly what I mean, brings me shirts hanging like a head. Starched collars your beard had worn. One man saying sorry, older lady in the back saying how funny you were, how you joked with her weekly. Sorry— & a fellow black man hands your clothes back for free, don’t worry. I’ve learned death has few kindnesses left. Such is charity—so rare & so rarely free— that on the way back to your emptying house I weep. Then drive everything, swaying, straight to Goodwill— open late—to live on another body & day.”

DeathPoetryLossGriefPoemMourningCleaning
Book:Book of Hours: Poems
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