Amarcord (Fellini, 1973)

Remember all your clumsy poets with fluttering hearts, your whimsy in red dresses, and the music of your click clacking heals. You mourned with the stone faced lovers, bored and unwanting, waiting under gray skies for the flood of passion, so long overdue. You can still smell the grass you picked from your hair after you tumbled with the maniacs. They were doomed to the long-held beliefs of their poison tongued fathers, and their fathers before them, their wrists held bare in their ill-fitted clothes. Remember the frustrated air escaping your lungs as you slumped into your grandmother’s favorite chair, feeling the years of habit climb you like ivy. You long for Sunday afternoons, and the lingering smells of your family in the purple light of dusk, the uneven sidewalks of your town, and the names that come to you now by accident accompanied by faces blurred by the clouds of age. Remember the laughter that splashed the walls and flooded the shoes of the careless dancers. It made your makeup streak, and it tore your dress, but it mattered little, because no one held a mirror to your beauty within the comfort of home.