The words of my mother tells the daily life of a woman who loses her words. At her side, her three children, each in their own way, watch over her, punctuate and reorganize her daily life. To move her out of her house, which she has lived in for 40 years, would be to break her down. It carries within it the strata of a history, of a territory. The house, the barn, the stream, the trees are still landmarks, in a space which, every day, closes in a little more.
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