Cries and Whispers (Bergman, 1973)

When I think of my childhood, I am delivered the soft flutter of butterflies in my stomach. I’d freely give my years of age and wisdom for a naive hour of running without cause, and a curious lesson learned. To see my siblings again, lined up in a row, our hair styled with a lick of a hand, and our love for one another uncompromised by disappointments of age. Our faces smooth and reddened in the tumbling grass, our smiles entangled with laughter, and the smell of an endless summer in the heavy twilight air.

Fill this house with the fevered yellow of love, and relieve it from the stale, choking dust of all that was left behind when those I loved the best aged and grew weary. Fill it with the barefoot innocence of youth and the creaking floorboards of innocent mischief in the night. Fill it with my family, the skinny legged children of my memories, so in love we were.

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