Morning Conversation

I wrote this a few days ago.  It's sort of a "flash fiction" but not fiction.  

“Morning Conversation”

I really should take the children to visit my grandmother,  I think each morning while I walk them down our long gravel driveway to wait for the bus in the still-dark.  We can see her house just over  there,  and a light on in the window.

“If there was a fire,” my daughter says, “Maw would probably die.”  She’s been studying fire safety in first grade.  I consider what to say.  “Well, let’s hope that doesn't happen,” I manage.

“What about her cat?”  My son asks.  “Who would save her cat?”  He is still deeply disturbed by the disappearance of a beloved barn cat over a year ago.  “The cat would probably be outside,” I say.

“But what if it’s not?”  He asks in earnest.  “Yeah,” my daughter says.  “What if the cat AND Maw can’t get out of the fire?”

I don’t have time to answer—bus lights are visible through the fog, and the heavy mechanical rumble grinds to a stop at the end of the driveway.  My children run toward it, excited, shouting good-byes, me shouting have-a-good-days, the imaginary fire forgotten.

I walk to my house, the same house I've lived in since birth, dampness clinging to my clothes like ghosts and guilt.