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Mourning Quotes

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Mourning Quotes

“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.”

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Book:Book of Hours: Poems
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“For too brief a moment in the universe the veil was lifted. The mysterious became known. Questions met answers somewhere behind the stars. Furrowed brows were smoothed and eyelids closed over long unblinking stares. Your beloved occupied the cosmos. You awoke to sunrays and nestled down to sleep in moonlight. All life was a gift open to you and burgeoning for you. Choirs sang to harps and your feet moved to ancestral drumbeats. For you were sustaining and being sustained by the arms of your beloved. Now the days stretch before you with the dryness and sameness of desert dunes. And in this season of grief we who love you have become invisible to you. Our words worry the empty air around you and you can sense no meaning in our speech. Yet, we are here. We are still here. Our hearts ache to support you. We are always loving you. You are not alone.”

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Book:Letter to My Daughter
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“All my anxiety is separation anxiety. I want to believe you are here with me, But the bed is bigger and the trash Overflows. Someone righteous should Take out my garbage. I am so many odd And enviable things. Righteous is not One of them. I’d rather a man to avoid Than a man to imagine in a realm Unseen, though even the doctor who Shut your eyes swears you’re somewhere As close as breath. Mine, not yours. You don’t have breath. You got Heaven. That’s supposed to be my Haven. I want you to tell me it sparkles There. I want you to tell me anything Again and again while I turn you over To quiet you or to wake and remind you I can’t be expected to clean up after a man.”

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Book:The Tradition
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“There’s a misconception that grief is about “looking backward,” mourning someone whose life has been reduced to memories. But grief is also about “looking forward,” realizing and grieving all the future events that your loved one will never get to participate in. Grief is half about mourning the past that was and half about mourning the future that never will be. You’re not weird or crazy for jumping months, years, or decades ahead to envision a life without your loved one present. In fact, when loss happens, we often feel like we’re losing everything all at once—past, present, and future. Sometimes in these moments, it’s comforting to know that while your loved one can no longer follow you into the future, your memories and love for them can.”

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Book:Your Grief, Your Way: A Year of Practical Guidance and Comfort After Loss
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“A memory unearthed itself: the way his wife had looked in the weeks following the news, the way she looked at things but never really saw them. The way she always seemed to be staring at something he couldn’t make out. The broken-down pits of her eyes, high on painkillers, opiates, staring at the wall, silent tears streaking drug-slacked cheeks. Maybe that had finished them off even before the divorce papers. Neither of them could live with what happened and neither wanted to watch the other one die so slowly.”

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Book:The War Beneath
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“In a time of grief, it's the symbols that cut the deepest--the single red shoe in a pile of dusty gray war rubble, the grease-stained recipe card in Grandma's handwriting, the flag-draped casket saluted at the airport, the first wildflower that pushes its way through the ashes of last year's forest fire, the guitar whose voice would never be heard.”

LossGriefMourning
Book:Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--and Learning to Live Well with What Is
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“It doesn't seem enough, and as he starts them off, you want to call after him, tell him how you too question the ways of faith, the injustice, the never-ending losses, that it stuns you too, that you still grieve for Mrs. Goetz and Arnie and Eric Soderholm just as their families do, though everyone else seems to have forgotten. Lydia Flynn, the tramp behind Meyer's, the men in the swamps of Kentucky. If a sparrow fall, you want to say, it is not lost. I will remember. We are all saved.”

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Book:A Prayer for the Dying
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“When a loss is ambiguous, no public ceremony acknowledges the loss and its fallout, or honors the memory of the loved one. It was true for us. People still were unsure how to respond to the endlessness of our unique form of loss. Should they grieve with us or pretend life was fine now that Zach had lived through it all? Would we resent it if they didn't mention the injury, or if they did?”

LossGriefMourningAmbiguous Loss
Book:Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--and Learning to Live Well with What Is
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“Ambiguous disappointment often accompanies ambiguous loss. For so long we disappointed each other--drawing close when the other needed space, keeping our distance when the other needed closeness, misreading each other's cues about whether an incident was comedic or catastrophic in the other's opinion, misjudging which of our children needed us most at any given moment.”

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Book:Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--and Learning to Live Well with What Is
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“Grief, thought Marian, was not the melancholy mourning of a loss, not the long and dwindling ache that ballads sang of. It was forgetting, and remembering, again and again, an endless series of slashes, each as violent and sharp as the last. It was execution by a thousand different wounds, it was bleeding to death so slowly that you are certain it will never end, that you will suffer this torture for eternity, long after your natural life has ended. You are Prometheus, and instead of your liver, the eagle is tearing out your heart.”

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Book:Sherwood
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“Depression severs all attachments. Mourning differs from depression above all through its strong libidinal attachment to an object. In contrast, depression is objectless and therefore undirected. It is important to distinguish depression from melancholy. Melancholy is preceded by the experience of loss. Therefore it still stands in a relation - namely, negative relation - to the absent thing or party. In contrast, depression is cut off from all relation and attachment. It utterly lacks gravity.”

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Book:Müdigkeitsgesellschaft
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“Ach, es war die grausame Ironie, die in alldem lag - das liebliche Mädchen, das, mit Blumen geschmückt, so blühend aussah wie im Leben, sodass einer nach dem anderen seine Zweifel äußerste, ob sie denn wirklich tot sei. Sie lag in dem schönen Mamorhaus da draußen auf dem einsamen Friedhof, wo schon so viele ihres Geschlechtes ruhen, lag dort mit ihrer Mutter, die sie liebte und die von ihr geliebt wurde, und die Totenglocke klang so traurig und leise. Und jene heiligen Männer mit den Engelsgewändern, die scheinbar aus den Büchern vorlasen und doch keinen Augenblick auf deren Seiten sahen, und dazu wir alle mit tief gebeugtem Haupt. Und wofür das alles? Sie ist tot, Ende!”

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Book:Dracula
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“The president is not at all like the powerful icon I imagined her to be. She’s more like I remember Amma: small and delicate with a sari that dances behind her as she walks. Of course, the president is clad in white, the color that shows eternal mourning of a lost child, while Amma never wore white. She wore reds and oranges and deep greens. Colors of celebration, of happiness. Perhaps she wears white now. Now that I am dead to her.”

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Author:Holly Bodger
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“For all her culture's attention to the physical, it seemingly has little to salve the creatural anguish of losing someone else's body, their touch, their heat, their oceanic heart...she doesn't want another body, she wants the body she loved, the forceps scar across his cheek that she traced with her hand, his penis, its elegant sweep to the side, the preternaturally soft skin. One wants what one has loved, not the idea of love.”

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Book:Widow: Stories
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“I'd always written how grief was hollow. How it was a vast cavern of nothing. But I was wrong. Grief was the exact opposite. It was full and heavy and drowning because it wasn't the absence of everything you lost - it was the combination of it all, your love, your happiness, your bittersweets, wound tight like a knotted ball of yarn. - Florence Day”

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Book:The Dead Romantics
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“Of course he wasn't dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and thinking. The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.”

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Book:Their Eyes Were Watching God
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“I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed forever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.”

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Book:Frankenstein
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“If you wear black, then kindly, irritating strangers will touch your arm consolingly and inform you that the world keeps on turning. They're right. It does. However much you beg it to stop. It turns and lets grenadine spill over the horizon, sends hard bars of gold through my window and I wake up and feel happy for three seconds and then I remember. It turns and tips people out of their beds and into their cars, their offices, an avalanche of tiny men and women tumbling through life... All trying not to think about what's waiting at the bottom. Sometimes it turns and sends us reeling into each other's arms. We cling tight, excited and laughing, strangers thrown together on a moving funhouse floor. Intoxicated by the motion we forget all the risks. And then the world turns... And somebody falls off... And oh God it's such a long way down. Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... Receding in our memories until they're no longer visible. We gather in cemeteries, tense and silent as if for listening for the impact; the splash of a pebble dropped into a dark well, trying to measure its depth. Trying to measure how far we have to fall. No impact comes; no splash. The moment passes. The world turns and we turn away, getting on with our lives... Wrapping ourselves in comforting banalities to keep us warm against the cold. "Time's a great healer." "At least it was quick." "The world keeps turning." Oh Alec— Alec's dead.”

DeathMourning
Book:Swamp Thing, Vol. 5: Earth to Earth
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“And soon a cold realization hit me: The time for giving up hope and 
letting go was now. It would be my parting gift to her. And as I cried 
into Mom’s ear and held her hand, and told her it was okay to let go, that I’d be fine, I felt her chest rise one last time. There was no long 
continuous beep like you see in the movies. Just a deafening silence 
and my echo of good-bye skipping down the side of her ear like a coin 
down a deep well.”

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Book:Monsieur Mediocre: One American Learns the High Art of Being Everyday French
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“The Unanswered Question by Stewart Stafford Ask a body why it lies in a grave, And no answer shall ring in your ears, Ask the rat that squeaks like a knave, And there is nothing to ease your fears. See lightning's fiery eye wink a hint, Hear thunder belching out proud, Hail is flicked off like lint, Dumb as a corpse in its shroud. Mourners do splutter and cry, In unison or solitary grief, Hysteria governs their reply, Tongues pocketed by sorrow's thief. Only when you lay in dirt senselessly, Do answers come out of reach, Secrets clouded eternally, To an owl's shrill and wise screech. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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