There is a certain wistfulness when I think of my childhood home. It was much less of a home with not even a fraction of the conveniences of our present home. It was a tiny house but lives very large in my memory. There has always been a hiraeth in me to return there. There is a tug that has become almost painful that hiraeth is like a whisper, that beckons me, like a wordless call, as I roam ahead in my life. I do not know how to explain that longing. Is it all nostalgia? Is it an insult to my present because I long for my past? Is the hiraeth in me, even based on actual truths or a version of my childhood where I have sieved out all the unpleasant parts? What is left is delightful which generates that earnest desire to go back. The present is never a fairy tale but we can always weave our past into one. When life throws us a curveball, we long for our version of the past. When dealing with teenagers, we want to hiraeth to when they were babies when they did not speak their mind. This hiraeth may be ravaging our present and maybe making our pleasant present, rather dark. When my past calls, I am not going to answer anymore. It has nothing new to say…….