"Who am I speaking to?"
David Caven, who is this?
"This is Officer Frendlich with the Boulder Police Department, you said your last name was 'Cave-in?'"
Cav-en. What can I do for you?
"Well, I'm afraid I have a little bad news Mister Caven. Your mother is, well..."
My mother is - is she okay?
"Did you just speak to her, Mister Caven?"
Yes, well, a couple of hours ago, but she was fine.
"We did a cursory trace of this line and we found that the last call that came through on this line was from your number."
But what about my mother?
"She's laying here in a heap, Mister Caven, still clutching the receiver. What did you say to your mother in that call?"
And that's pretty much why I am retiring from the practical joke business, at least where my mother is concerned. Fear not. She's fine, if not the tiniest bit chagrined after all the years of abuse she has taken on April First. We have lived through earthquakes, trouble with our young son, and even the trials of having my younger brother join a cult. All in the name of fun. I have benefited greatly from the unconditional love and trust I have been given by my mother, and how how have I paid her back? A yearly dose of torment, designed primarily to amuse myself and anyone who might hear about it later. Like the time I rearranged her Netflix queue to send her nothing but movies about April Fools. Or when I amended her online calendar to include a series of imaginary meetings with imaginary clients and strangers.
It would serve me right if my mother would arrange any sort of prank to try and pay me back for all my yearly Spring attentions. She has flinched in anticipation long enough. Now it's time to set her free from all this silliness.
I wonder if she'll believe me.