Little do we know what's waiting around the corner. All over the world, this very minute, there's millions drinking their last cup of tea, kissing their children goodnight for the last time. We did the same thing every night for forty rears. He checked all the doors and windows and I went back again to make sure the cooker was off and the guard in front of the fire. Then we said the rosary. It was a Thursday so it was his turn to give it out.

When we were getting in, I said are you ever going to wear that pyjamas? It's on that radiator since the day you bought it. Goodnight, he said, just to shut me up. I gave him his goodnight kiss and turned over. I was dreaming of Michael gliding along in one of those cornettos when he shook me awake. He jumped out and put on the pyjamas and, before I could say a word, I smelt the smoke. I tried to follow him down the hall, but I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was in the hospital and all I could say was Oh God, what am I going to say to Michael?

©2006 woodlawn fiction