Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was.

Why do we long for the places of our past? Our feet on the cold, dusty floor of the basement or our name drawn on a foggy bedroom window?

It cannot be completely escapist; sometimes we’ve hidden, trembling, behind a box in that basement, sometimes writing our name on the glass was a necessary distraction to the cries and pleading below.

Other times we remember the soft, melodic hum of our grandma as she stirred and sprinkled and kneaded in the kitchen.

I write about pain and longing. About hope and redemption.

I write the story that only I can tell.