I had a dream that I was a guest on your show.
I was one of your home viewers, who had written to you about my struggle to deal with my former boyfriend's death. Now I am an audience member that you are planning to surprise. You invite me onstage to sit in your red chair and you say, "How would you like to see Rickey one last time?"
My jaw drops. My hands rise to cover my mouth. My eyes well with tears. You point behind me, "I bet you'd love to see that guy right there."
I look over my shoulder as the blue and purple lights flash behind the marble-swirled bricks of the studio walls. And then the walls part. And there he is. 6' 4". Slender. Hat turned back, baggy jeans and a large hooded sweatshirt. Flashing his big, wind-up smile. I run, sobbing, across the stage and into his arms. He whispers in my ear, "I've missed you."
Ever wonder what it would look like to see a broken heart healed?
That's what I saw in my dream, on your stage.