Hiraeth

Hiraeth (Longing for Home)

Sometimes my sense of home feels like sadness,

and then it looks like tea gone cold next to an empty seat,
like a worn fold in an old map that leads nowhere I know,
like the smell of rain on dry ground that never turns fresh.

Sometimes my sense of home feels like family,

and then it looks like voices talking over each other in a steamy kitchen,
like little handprints smudged low on a sunny window,
like the warm weight of a blanket shared, threads starting to come loose.

Sometimes my sense of home feels like being alone,

and then it looks like the quiet buzz of a fridge in an empty apartment late at night,
like one lamp making a circle of light on pages as I slowly turn them,
like the sound of my own footsteps echoing down a long, empty hallway.

Sometimes my sense of home feels like not fitting in,

and then it looks like clothes folded neatly in a suitcase I never quite emptied,
like hearing a familiar accent on the wind that makes my heart hurt, then disappears,
like standing on a busy platform, watching trains leave for places I don't know.

Sometimes my sense of home feels like belonging,

and then it looks like roots finally taking hold in rocky, unexpected soil,
like the worn spot on a library step where I always sit to choose my books,
like seeing my reflection in a shop window and knowing the place behind me.

And woven through it all is hiraeth (heer-eyeth),

that wordless pull towards a fireplace just out of sight,
a half-remembered smell on a stranger's coat,
the shape of mountains felt more than seen in the mist.
It is the memory of warmth where the fire once glowed,
the ache for a door whose key is lost, or maybe,
was never really mine, yet I keep searching for it as the light fades.

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