Sharing tales of those we've lost is how we keep from really losing them.
Sharing tales of those we've lost is how we keep from really losing them.
You count the hours you could have spent with your mother. It's a lifetime in itself.
She cared. She gave a crap. When I lacked even the self-respect to keep myself alive, she dabbed my cuts and I fell back into being a son; I fell as easily as you fall into your pillow at night. And I didn't want it to end. That's the best way I can explain it. I knew it was impossible. But I didn't want it to end.
You need to keep people close. You need to give them access to your heart.
Belief, hard work, love-you have those things, you can do anything.
She had a bottomless well of love for me.
But she wasn't around, and that's 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.
Small towns are like metronomes; with the slightest flick, the beat changes.
Going back to something is harder than you think.
So many times I feel I'm using the same words over and over, like a woman wearing the same dress every day. So boring!
I also believe that parents, if they love you, will hold you up safely, above their swirling waters, and sometimes that means you'll never know what they endured, and you may treat them unkindly, in a way you otherwise wouldn't.
Something is always happening somewhere.
I saw in her expression that old, unshakable mountain of concern. And I realized when you look at your mother, you are looking at the purest love you will ever know
Suddenly, details seemed extremely important. Details were something to grab on to, a way to insert myself into the story.
I thought about the days i had handed over to a bottle..the nights i can't remember..the mornings i slept thru..all the time spent running from myself.
The more you defend a lie, the angrier you become.
It was sad, the imbalance of it all. Why do kids assume so much from one parent and hold the other to a lower, looser standard?
There are many things in my life that I wish I could take back. Many moments I would recast.
Kids chase the love that eludes them, and for me, that was my father's love. He kept it tucked away, like papers in a briefcase. And I kept trying to get in there.
There is everything you know and there is everything that happens. When the two do not line up, you make a choice.
Kids chase the love that eludes them.
Things change when you're not in danger anymore.
Life goes quickly, doesn't it?
This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might cal it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at out tables long after they have gone.
Mothers support certain illusions about their children, and one of my illusions was that I liked who I was, because she did. When she passed away, so did that idea.
What is it about childhood that never lets you go, even when you're so wrecked it's hard to believe you ever were a child?
My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt and sauce.
When death takes your mother, it steals that word forever.
Now you know how badly someone wanted you, Charley. Children forget that sometimes. They think of themselves as a burden instead of a wish granted.
When you look into your mother's eyes, you know that is the purest love you can find on this earth.
One day spent with someone you love can change everything.
You can find something truly important in an ordinary minute.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories