The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.
Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there's a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see.
What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.
When it seems that our sorrow is too great to be borne, let us think of the great family of the heavy-hearted into which our grief has given us entrance. And inevitably, we will feel about us their arms, their sympathy and their understanding.
Things must be felt with the heart.
We bereaved are not alone. We belong to the largest company in all the world--the company of those who have known suffering.
Death is no more than passing from one room into another.
Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away.
How futile are words in the ears of those who mourn.
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