Fireman

When I was ten and my brother was seven,

we would go over to our dad's house for the occasional weekend.

He created this game called "Fireman"

where he would find old cardboard boxes and

turn them into houses,

drawing windows and doors on

the boxes' sides with Sharpie and adding

popsicle stick people as a finishing touch before

setting them in the backyard.

Then he'd set up the Radio Flyer wagon that he kept

in the shed, equipping it with shiny red hard hats and

bucket after bucket of water.

He would set a small flame to the cardboard house,

yelling "FIREEE" as his hard hat bounced

excitedly on his head. My brother and I would

sprint across the grass dragging the wagon behind us,

our own red hard hats slipping over our eyes as

we frantically dumped water on the make-believe house,

and sometimes our buckets weren't enough

and dad would have to lend a hand.

We would play this game for hours, endlessly

and tirelessly,

until the cardboard box was a pile of ashes

next to the swing set

and it was time for us to be picked up.

I remember this game more than I remember

most things from my childhood,

and I think it's because of the pride and awe

my brother and I felt as we watched our dad

running through the backyard with a giant

hose streaming water,

ready to extinguish the flames

we weren't able to put out ourselves.

When I need to summon bravery, I picture my

father's hard hat zooming past me and

mentally situate it atop my own head, the hat's

red hue radiating courage.

Kids rarely notice the feeling of having someone

always ready to help them, of knowing

that if they fail

they have someone who will

save the day, who

will put everything back together for them

before too much damage is done.

But I held on very tightly to every feeling of safety

I was ever given.

I watched as my father came

and drowned out the flames,

I memorized every moment of

his frantic running

so that I was sure I wouldn't forget

what it feels like to be

saved.