London first, Dream behind the cut

I love London. I love its dirt encrusted architecture and its gritty people and its filthy weather and its sooty underground. It is one of my life’s mysteries: when I first arrived in London at just under 20 years old, I felt as though I had finally come home. I still can’t explain it, but I can’t deny it either. When I heard that a bomb had gone off in Russell Square I remember how often I’d stood there, waiting for a tube, watching the rats play on the rails below. I have not seen pictures, but I feel for you, dear city, and all your inhabitants. Londoners are made of tough stuff, and they will carry on. I cannot muster appropriate eloquence for the moment, so I shall have to be merely direct: my sympathy and my prayers will rise for you and yours on many nights in the next weeks.

And now, for something completely different and unrelated. Last night I dreamed that I was living in some sort of communal house with a large, low-ceilinged room that served as kitchen and eating area. There were sinks and ranges and countertops along two walls and a couple of tables with chairs. I had decided that I spent too much time with Sophia, or with both kids, and not enough quality time with Simone alone, so I was planning ways to get one on one time with Simone. I was rehearsing mental speeches with Kurt. It occurred to me that I could see Sophia, but that I had no idea where Simone was right that second. I panicked and thought, “What a terrible parent! Here I am planning how to spend quality time with my kid when I don’t even know where she is!” I start some franctic searching, and then, tried to remember when I saw her last. The dream told me it had been just that very day coming home in her carseat. I didn’t make it outside to check because I realized the dream is lying. I haven’t seen Simone lately because she’s dead. I thought, “What a doubly terrible parent! I can’t even remember that my own kid is dead.”