Memories
fall
like
snowflakes
upon
my dreams.
The snowflakes
toss and tumble,
each different
and yet
the same.
Tags: memories
Friends are the most important part of your life. Treasure the tears, treasure the laughter, but most importantly, treasure the memories.
Dave BrennerTags: friends laughter memories
Saffy could tell by the feel of the darkness that Caddy was awake. She said, "Caddy, how far back can you remember?"
"Oh," said Caddy, "ages. I can remember when I could only lie flat. On my back. I can remember how pleased I was when I learned to roll over.
She filed those moments away like precious documents, wore them smooth with memory, collected them like bits of prayers.
Jennifer E. SmithTags: memories
The things we do outlast our mortality. The things we do are like monuments that people build to honor heroes after they've died. They're like the pyramids that the Egyptians built to honor the pharaohs. Only instead of being made of stone, they're made out of the memories people have of you.
R.J. PalacioTags: inspiration memories honor deeds
I'm 65 years old. Everyday the future looks a little bit darker. But the past, even the grimy parts of it, well, it just keeps on getting brighter all the time.
Alan MooreTags: past future memories alan-moore watchmen silk-spectre
It is interesting how one word can spark memories that one believes she has buried beyond recognition.
Mandy Nachampassack-MaloneyTags: sad memories recognition
That’s how Ptolemy imagined the disposition of his memories, his thoughts: they were still his, still in the range of his thinking, but they were, many and most of them, locked on the other side a closed door that he’s lost the key for. So his memory became like secrets held away from his own mind. But these secrets were noisy things; they babbled and muttered behind the door, and so if he listened closely he might catch a snatch of something he once knew well.
Walter MosleyTags: life memories forgetting thoughts
And I can promise you something, because it was a thing I saw many years later - a vision in the book thief herself - that as she knelt next to Hans Hubermann, she watched him stand and play the accordion. He stood and strapped it on in the alps of broken houses and played the accordion with kindness silver eyes and even a cigarette slouched on his lips. The bellows breathed and the tall man played for Liesel Meminger one last time as the sky was slowly taken away from her.
Markus ZusakAttempting to Soar"
A boy from Brooklyn used to cruise on summer nights.
As soon as he’d hit sixty he’d hold his hand out the window,
cupping it around the wind. He’d been assured
this is exactly how a woman’s breast feels when you put
your hand around it and apply a little pressure. Now he knew,
and he loved it. Night after night, again and again, until
the weather grew cold and he had to roll the window up.
For many years afterwards he was perpetually attempting
to soar. One winter’s night, holding his wife’s breast
in his hand, he closed his eyes and wanted to weep.
He loved her, but it was the wind he imagined now.
As he grew older, he loved the word etcetera and refused
to abbreviate it. He loved sweet white butter. He often
pretended to be playing the organ. On one of his last mornings,
he noticed the shape of his face molded in the pillow.
He shook it out, but the next morning it reappeared.
Tags: life love memories aging
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