Death scars you, weather you directly witness it or not, all it takes is to hear about it, to sense it, or to dream about it. From the moment you first know about death, you fear it, even if you don't know it or not. It lingers around you like a cartoon drawn cloud over an extremely unlucky character, just waiting to let loose and send its unwelcome downpour on you. However, for most children even after hearing about death, it isn't comprehensible. It scares them, but they don't grasp the concept of it. I, on the other hand did.



My father has been a firefighter for longer then I can remember. As a young child my brother, mother, and I would visit him when he worked 24-hour shifts at the fire station. I always enjoyed my visits with my father, his colleagues, and the colossal fire trucks. Though, on occasion I would be so bored I could die, I could never give up my visits.



It was a close-knit firehouse, like a small town, everyone knew everyone and watched each other's backs. Every member of the firehouse went out of their way to be friendly and get to know you. While this was very beneficial, to me, it was also a toxic poison that in a few years would choke me.



I have blacked out a lot of tragedies from my past; even now I can't really remember them. The only things I know is what I have been told when I reflect on my past with my parents. From what I understand the most tragic to me was the loss of two heroic men I knew fairly well, to an oil fire. Apparently, as they fought to tame the fire that was attacking someone's property and endangering lives, the oil exploded and killed them. It was the first time that I realized death took those from you that you cared for. Like those hero's that death had claimed in the line of duty, I was afraid my father would be claimed by deaths unyielding arm while he fought to save others and there property.



It was a beautiful clear day sometime during my first or second grade year. All the subtle warmth and the slight breezes meant that the time of the year was either late fall or late winter. The crisp smell of the freshly trimmed grass burned my nose slightly, and the lack of smog that most big cities contained made it easier and nicer to breath. The comforting outside heat assaulted me as I made my way from the school building to the newly built trailers to its left side. I was on a mission, sent from my math teacher. I was to go to my Content Mastery Course (CMC) teacher to get extra help and instruction on my assignment.



I was extremely excited because not only did my CMC teachers always make learning easy and fun for me, one of my best friends could usually be found in the trailer. I had a smile on my face as I walked calmly on the paved path that led to the metal plated manila trailer. I was on the second of the six deep brown stained wooden steps when it happened for the first time. Sirens sounded in the distance and I burst out into salty tears that caused my already allergy red eyes to redden even more.

Though that was the first time I burst into tears at the sound of sirens, it most definitely wasn't the last time. When my parents finally found out about me bursting into distressed tears at the sound of sirens they made me an appointment to see a psychiatrist. Not even a week later I was standing in the threshold of the doctor's office.



The plump man was sitting down when I nervously walked in, but quickly stood and introduced himself and offered a calloused hand to me. After the formalities, I was seated on a comfortable couch across from him. I remember feeling like I was on trial, and that I did something wrong. The doctor asked me questions to which I gave honest answers. By the end of the session, I felt like a cloud on a clear day, light and fluffy.



"Haley, you know your dad works in a dangerous line of work, but you can't be afraid for him. He could die just as easily walking across the street." The doctor told me, receiving a silent nod from me in return. He later told my parents that my problem was I was more mature then most kids my age, and I had a deeper understanding of the world.

I stopped crying over sirens after that. Now sirens are a sound I relish, knowing that help is on the way for someone. Its's a sound I always listen for, as a prelude to what's to come in my life. Sirens are my safety blinket, my hope, and future. Mostly, they are my friends and heroes, as are the men and women behind the sirens. Lastly, they are what will someday be a part of me, becuase I too- like the hero's before me- will risk my life for other people and their property.

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