How My Children Almost Die Every Morning.

On our way to school every morning, we pass a big cemetery.

And everybody knows, when you pass a cemetery, you hold your breath.

Lest you breathe in a ghost.

At least, I suppose that’s the reason.

Sometimes we get caught by the traffic light there beside the cemetery, and it’s almost more than their little lungs can withstand.

But then the light turns red, and my children suck in huge, noisy, gasping lungs-full of air much like Wesley and Princess Buttercup after they came crawling out of the quicksand in the Fireswamp, and I, too, breathe a little easier.

We didn’t breathe in any ghosts, and my children didn’t suffocate. All’s well that ends well.