Miguel Syjuco Quotes

Friends depart, and memory takes them To her caverns, pure and deep.

Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.

To have memories of those you have loved and lost is perhaps harder than to have no memories.

She lived in her past life — every letter seemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well she remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress, what he said and how — these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all that were left her in the world.

Everyone I have lost in the closing of a door the click of the lock is not forgotten, they do not die but remain within the soft edges of the earth, the ash of house fires and cancer in sin and forgiveness huddled under old blankets dreaming their way into my hands, my heart closing tight like fists. - "Indian Boy Love Song #1

The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.

I wondered if there would ever be a day when I didn't think about Alaska, wondered whether I should hope for a time when she would be a distant memory - recalled only on the anniversary of her death, or maybe a couple of weeks after, remembering only after having forgotten.

With you a part of me hath passed away; For in the peopled forest of my mind A tree made leafless by this wintry wind Shall never don again its green array. Chapel and fireside, country road and bay, Have something of their friendliness resigned; Another, if I would, I could not find, And I am grown much older in a day. But yet I treasure in my memory Your gift of charity, and young hearts ease, And the dear honour of your amity; For these once mine, my life is rich with these. And I scarce know which part may greater be,-- What I keep of you, or you rob from me.

Every day I'll wear your memory like a favorite shirt upon my back

There is nothing steadfast in life but our memories. We are sure of keeping intact only that which we have lost.

Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all.

All that he had of her was his memory, where he held every moment, every single moment that she had been his. That was all he had, to keep out the loneliness.

Of all our sorrows, memory is the worst.

I think about my mother every day. But usually the thoughts are fleeting - she crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely... gone.

Memories, even bittersweet ones, are better than nothing.

I think of John every day. I do try to block it, but December 8th is not the only day I think of him.

It's true what they say: 'You don't appreciate what you've got until it's gone.' I miss love. I miss being looked after.

Dad, wherever you are, you are gone but you will never be forgotten.

When I designed my loft, I literally framed the World Trade Center as a picture postcard I could see from my bed. I no longer have that image, and I mourn it.

The punctuation of anniversaries is terrible, like the closing of doors, one after another between you and what you want to hold on to.

I very much loved my late wife, Diana Joy Colbert, and I'd rather hold onto what I can.

Back to him she would never go, but in her lonely life still lived the sweet memory of that happy time when she believed in him and he was all in all to her.

Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.

Memory is the only friend of grief.