Last night I dreamed I was back home. Everything was as it had been—the cows roamed in the pastures and I could smell Ma’s fragrant potato soup boiling on the stove. On the oak table in front of me lay all of Father’s famous manuscripts. I was so sweaty.
Even in the midst of sleep, I was illuminated by Father’s elegant prose. At this point the sweat was starting to drip off a little, but I hadn’t noticed yet. I could hear Ma’s sweet voice calling my name from the kitchen and felt a wave of nostalgia. At the same time, some of the sweat was starting to blur the manuscripts. There is no feeling like the comfort of one’s home.
I tried to mop up the sweat with my hands, but it was too late. I was now perspiring from every pore in my body. My sweat had soaked through several volumes of manuscripts. I had destroyed hundreds of priceless documents containing our only remaining tangible connection to my father’s legacy as well as my family’s sole form of income. I inhaled the sweet smell of potato soup.
When I awoke, my heart ached with the realization it had all been a dream. What I would give to return home.