Ozzy is sprawled on his back with his legs like chicken wings jutting up from his body. He snores.

Words rush to the surface like carbonated bubbles and jam up at the bottle's top, which never twists all the way open. Under the plastic they burst and scream and shake but no one hears them.

This afternoon at my computer where the words tingle in my fingertips and a few make it onto the keyboard, my eyes pop open when I see Ozzy's belly soar over my head and out of view. Once I lose sight, I think he is actually gone. Never there at all. Unless dreams are three dimensional, even dreams as I nod off at work, everything is temporary and without weight or substance. If you are in my dream and I see you walking toward me, you are gone if you pass from sight.

I watch Lily dream. With most of her body on the pillow, which is slightly deflated with tufts of stuffing missing, her head and legs drop off the edges. Her legs jerk a little and she snorts like she is sniffing in the woods. Whatever she sees now will disappear. She will wake up whole.

When I wake in the mornings I pray for the illusion of reprieve. I wish I were waking at 3 a.m. and welcomed by the promise of a few hours more to sleep.

I only write the news, and I am feeling adrift, like If I walk past you while you're dreaming…

I need to feel like I mean something. Jerry means something. He is a dad, and what is a more looming and perpetual responsibility than raising a child? Dragging her through the pits of adolescence and intense drama of young adulthood is a hill much too high for some, with its peek shrouded in clouds. Will things turn out OK at the top? Will we, the parents and children, be able to slip through this grueling keyhole without damage? Anyway, I am not a mom but I can tell you that parenting is so much more than lots of baby snot.

I need to do something with Lily that matters. Maybe I can see if there are any volunteer citizen's programs for a search and rescue dog. Something to put us both to work at something useful and helpful.

She puked tonight. That moosh came out like a garden hose. I hear her tummy squish and gurgle a few times, then went back to the laundry. She was moaning and groaning.

What's that noise? Jerry asks. I think something outside is bothering her, she was just out barking, I answer. With underwear and shirts in a pile I head up to the bedroom. When I get back down I see gallons and oceans and seas of vomit.