When I look back on my childhood, my earliest memories seem like artifacts from a long-lost civilization: half-understood fragments behind museum glass.

Some memories are meant for not to be said, either they are too Scary to tell, or we love them that much, that we can’t explain those in oral words

...someone ought to invent a tool, a kind of plane to shave the lies away from stories and deception away from memories. I'm a collector of shavings.

My life will be measured in years; his will be measured in memories. I'm determined that whatever time we have together will never fade from his mind.

Some memories are meant for not to be said, either they are too Scary to tell, or we love them that much, that we can’t explain those in oral words.

Nothing is more memorable than a smell One scent can be unexpected momentary and fleeting yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains

I told her that saying goodbye didn't matter, not a bit. What mattered were all the days you were together before that, all the things you remembered.

I see pieces of memories in his eyes. Pieces of us. They are broken, and scattered, but they are there, gradually coming together again at the sight of me.

I'd had much practice turning my mind away from certain memories of my childhood. I could quickly dial her remembered voice from a whisper to a silence.

When he told it, I remembered. He handed me my past like… like a spear. But I do not know if I should take it. Is it still mine, if I do not want it?

Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags

I pretended like all the oranges rolling everywhere were her happy memories and they were looking for a new person to stick to so they didn't get wasted.

Letting go is not getting rid of memories. Memories will stay, they always do. Letting go is making sure that the pain associated with the memories goes away.

When those who name dead people have gone, there just remains the calmness of foreign cemeteries, in which nothing appears familiar and nothing frightens you.

I am beginning to understand the way in which memories hold us, mindfully, to the earth, by the quality of attention paid that they require to be made at all.