This one didn't turn out very upbeat, but it's truth. That tree reminded me of the grand old oak at the end of the garden on the hill. It was the site of picnics, and picture taking. It was where we started our sleds in the snow. It is a gorgeous tree, but not MY tree any more. I love that where we used to live is now a retreat for recovering alcoholics and drug addicts. But my heart still aches for those days, for the picnics with the cows hanging around, the bonfires in the winter to clear the brush around the house, the garden... that wild rose bush they transplanted to the garden. The calendulas all down one side. The strawberry bed where my mom had a snake encounter. The path down to the reservoir. The spot where Dad built that first tree house. The place I raised my kids.
We started going there when I was around nine. My aunt and uncle lived there, and sold off a piece of their land to my parents. They gradually built things there, first the tree house, outhouse, and even put a faucet on the spring so we had running water when we camped there nearly every weekend.
Anyway. It is the home of my heart, but I can't return. So there's the Hiraeth.
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