The sorrow-ridden widow clutched the old photograph as she watched the funeral procession disappear down the lane.

She pressed a fallen blossom from the tree of sorrow into the pages of her journal, hoping its scent would keep her memories alive.

At dusk, the old cemetery was lined by trees of sorrow that whispered with the wind.

To drown one's sorrows, he drank alone every night.

Every year the parish held a candlelight procession in honor of Our Lady of Sorrows, remembering the grief she endured.

She whispered his name sorrowfully as the train pulled away.