I rip out some sweet peas, cornflowers, and white cosmea, they’re dangling in my hand as I wait for the Uber to arrive to take my stuff to another place.
I look at the garden that is bursting and overflowing onto the path, 3 months ago I had shoveled, torn, broken up the soil, I had sown seeds and watered and waited impatiently and now it is all there in all its glory: the harvest of a dream and time for me to wake up.
There’s a Welsh word that I came across a couple of days ago: Hiraeth. That describes a feeling of longing for something that is irretrievably lost – “a unique blend of place, time and people that can never be recreated. This unreachable nature adds an element of grief, but somehow it is not entirely unwelcome”.