FRESH YARN presents When This is Over... by Karen Rizzo:
Jim, tell me something comforting.' I say to my husband, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
'Okay.' He puts down his book. 'We don't really exist.'
Not quite what I had in mind.
I fall off to sleep and dream of my father being chased by a police car. The siren on the car interrupts my sleep, then morphs into a muffled, wailing cry. Is it Drake, my five-year-old, in the midst of a nightmare? A feral parrot with its acute imitation of a child in distress? The baby's monitor? My father's monitor? It's 3 a.m. and it's the baby, August. Jim is either sleeping or feigning sleep or has left his body on a sojourn to another dimension. Two hours ago we gave Dad his morphine for the night.
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