For some reason, I've had Coldplay's "Warning Sign" stuck in my head for the last few days. Since Monday, at least.
Months ago, in late May, Dad sent me a short e-mail asking if I was homesick, and if there was anything he could send me. I wasn't feeling especially homesick at the time, but a couple of nights later I had a dream.
A man and a woman were engaged to be married. They were very important people, like the president or much-beloved politicians. They wanted to announce their engagement, but were afraid of the fuss and trouble the media would cause.
Then they were married, traveling from the wedding to the house they'd just bought. They walked up to the large, old house, and when they reached the porch I became the woman. I thought to myself that most women walk into a new house and wonder what they're going to do with the place, so as I crossed the porch I started to wonder what I was going to do with the place.
The front door was open, and I saw that the house was not empty; in fact, it was fully furnished. As I walked through the front door I saw that it was exactly like the house I grew up in, with crocheted afghans and newspapers on the floor, with dolls sitting on the backs of armchairs, with a lamp on the endtable—everything was the same, and I gasped so loudly that it was an inhaled scream, and I started to cry. And after I knew I'd been dreaming, I cried even harder.
I wrote Dad back the next day and asked him to send me one of Grammy's afghans.
The truth is,
I miss you.