Apparently, a homeless person has died in the grass just across from my daughter's school.

All of us parents are tipped off to the situation by the fire truck screeching to a halt just a few yards from our parking lot. We quickly usher our kids inside the school, although they are not alarmed. In fact, they are delighted. They believe this to be a demonstration, staged for their benefit. Their kindergarten class is scheduled to visit the firehouse a little later on this very morning.

As we are unpacking backpacks, removing hats, and smoothing hair, we are mouthing silent inquiries to one another over our children's heads: What happened? Who died? Heard anything?

We all leave to run errands or head off to work and then a handful of moms return to chaperone the field trip. The normally rambunctious, multicolored class is now sitting in an organized circle on the alphabet rug, with each tiny butt planted neatly on its letter. The teacher is reminding them to walk quietly, stay in line, and please keep up. "Remember to ask the firemen questions," she says, "and not to tell them stories."

"Has anyone heard anything yet?" I ask.

"Not me," says R's mom.

"I hope it was nothing violent," says M's mom.

"His liver probably gave out on him," says A's mom.

"Mmmm," say a bunch of us.

We zip up jackets, shove gloves onto hands, put hats back onto heads, and straighten the line. Once we are outside, the kids get noisy, the line becomes an S, and E, in his puffy blue coat, will not stay focused and falls behind. The walk between the school and the station is about three blocks.

As we turn the first corner, I glance back toward the school. A police car has replaced the fire truck on the curb. There are several policemen and someone I think might be a Mission employee standing in a circle on the grass. All of them are looking down.

Once we reach the station, the first hand in the air belongs to C, a sweet-as-sugar brown girl, who says, "Fire is hot." The teacher's hand snakes through the crowd, finds C's hood, and pulls her gently backward. Then L's dark hand shoots up and, without being called on, he says, "When there is a fire, you should get in your car." The teacher sighs. The firemen are mispronouncing all of the children's names but are generous with their smiles and patient as they continue to be "asked" in story form.

"Today," says Fireman Mike, "we've already been out on an early call."

My eyes catch those of the kindergarten classroom aide and we both hold our breath: Please don't say it, Please don't say it, Please don't say it. Of course, he doesn't. He is a professional, after all, and a very nice man besides.

In the hour that we spend at the station, the firemen show the kids their boots and pants, air tanks and masks, trucks and hoses. They show them the bunks, den, and exercise room. They completely suit up and let the kids smell the smoke in their clothes. They give them priceless instruction on what to do in a fire although it is pretty evident that the children aren't listening. Why would they? There probably isn't a five-year old alive in America who believes that she could ever actually be caught in a fire.

On leaving the station, we line the kids up again and count them. We arrived with nineteen and are leaving with the same. The kids are keyed up, shouting their desire to be firemen or firewomen when they grow up. D, by way of contrast, shouts out her desire just to marry one. The moms all laugh and we march merrily, pink-faced, and nearly breathless back the way we came.

As we come to the last corner, the adults bunch into a tense, tight ball and make our way to the front of the line. We crane our necks to see if the police are gone and, most importantly, if it is safe to assume that whoever had lain in the grass has been removed. It looks to be all clear: cathedral on one side, school on the other, nothing and no one in between. We breathe a bit of relief and each hold the closest little hand.

Once back at the school, having unzipped and ungloved the children and placed them at their tables, I hurry to the parking lot and head for my car. R's mom pulls up alongside me with a face clearly filled with new information. She has run into E's father, who confirmed the suspected death and said that it was a man that died.

"I look at this as just a great learning opportunity that she wouldn't get anywhere but in the inner city," she says, talking about her daughter.

"Yeah," I say. "Sure. It's something."

We talk about the plans we are making for the Halloween party and how impressed we are by the new kindergarten teacher's emphasis on early literacy. She starts to frown a little as she tells me that her white girl is being "bullied" by a brown girl and keeps calling to come home in the middle of the day. It bothers me that she keeps putting the word "that" before the supposed bully's name.

"You should probably speak with the teacher," I offer.

"Oh, I will."

"Good."

I have started visibly rocking on my feet, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets and generally acting out a day much colder than this one happens to be. I want her to note my discomfort and leave, which she finally does. I do not dislike this woman, but I fear that she is focusing on the wrong learning opportunity.

Pulling away from the school and passing The Mission, Mental Health Services, and Be At Ease Ministries, I decide that I will not tell my daughter how a homeless man has died in the grass just across from her school. She already knows that you shouldn't carry cash or ever go near anyone who is screaming random bits of poetry or even once stray from the gated playground—these are the simple facts of her life. But I don't find any easy lesson in this death; nor do I find any five-year old capable of grasping the way that poverty has of rolling over into grief. This inevitable knowledge can be put off for a little while longer, even in the inner city.

For now, I want my daughter to go on laughing, learning, forming S-shaped lines, and resolving conflicts with children of every shade (those she calls her "beautiful, good friends"). For this to continue, I will bring her back to school again tomorrow. For all of these kids, I hope that they go on believing that they could never actually be caught in a fire. Please, for just a little while longer.

Monica Crumback's essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers, Mom Writer's Literary Magazine, and on hipmama.com and mothersmovement.org.