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It had been so long since she had seen him and she had lived on memories until they were worn thin.
-Margaret Mitchell
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It Had Been So Long Since She

Margaret Mitchell
It had been so long since she had seen him and she had lived on memories until they were worn thin.
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Memories Long Worn

More From Margaret Mitchell

You have your wonderful memories," people said later, as if memories were solace. memories are not. memories are by definition of times past, things gone. memories are the westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. memories are what you no longer want to remember.
Memories Past People
You're beautiful, but you're empty...one couldn't die for you. of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. but my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one i've watered. since she's the one i put under glass, since she's the one i sheltered behind the screen. since she's the one for whom i killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). since she's the one i listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. since she's my rose.
Beautiful Butterfly Thinking
I have seen war. i have seen war on land and sea. i have seen blood running from the wounded. i have seen men coughing out their gassed lungs. i have seen the dead in the mud. i have seen cities destroyed. i have seen 200 limping, exhausted men come out of line—the survivors of a regiment of 1,000 that went forward 48 hours before. i have seen children starving. i have seen the agony of mothers and wives. i hate war.
Mother Running Children
She smiled. she knew she was dying. but it did not matter any longer. she had known something which no human words could ever tell and she knew it now. she had been awaiting it and she felt it, as if it had been, as if she had lived it. life had been, if only because she had known it could be, and she felt it now as a hymn without sound, deep under the little whole that dripped red drops into the snow, deeper than that from which the red drops came. a moment or an eternity- did it matter? life, undefeated, existed and could exist. she smiled, her last smile, to so much that had been possible.
Life Hymns Snow
Oh god, are there so many of them in our land! students who can’t be happy until they’ve graduated, servicemen who can’t be happy until they are discharged, single folks who can’t be happy until they’ve found a mate, workers who can’t be happy until they’ve retired, adolescents who aren’t happy until they’re grown, ill people who aren’t happy until they’re well, failures who aren’t happy until they succeed, restless who can’t wait until they get out of town, and in most cases, vice versa, people waiting, waiting for the world to begin.
Land People Waiting
Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in: brought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before she became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as she died, always knew he was fiction but believed in him anyway.
Sweet Morning Coffee
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