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Her hand hovered tentatively over the skin of the beautiful red fire truck. She was almost afraid to touch it. As her hand finally crossed the space and rested, she remembered vividly that morning in September. The children rushing for the bus, playing tag in the front yard with the neighborhood, moms waiting at the bus stop, sharing stories and bowls of fresh garden tomatoes to share.

The boys got on the bus, and she went about her morning duties, wondering why the siren was so loud. The fire house was only three blocks away, but the sirens were more and more common once school started. She heard the siren pass, heard the sounds of the trucks as they rumbled by the end of the street. This truck.

The phone call came at 9:11 according to the microwave. She noticed it, and felt panic - a call at this time of the morning on September 11th could not be good.

She remembered her first site of the bus, a crumpled yellow mass in the creek, bridge parts hanging precariously over the water, this bright red truck spraying water to prevent any fires. These men, now standing around in various states of uniform, pulling the children out to safety. How many were safe? Where were the boys?

She could picture them in her mind. William was probably sitting in a seat, still reading, not even realizing that there was a problem. Noah was certainly running up and down the aisles, trying to find people that needed help. Nico was probably oblivious, too young to understand the gravity of the situation, and more worried about where he’d find a bathroom if they didn’t get to school soon.
Oh, she prayed. Let them be safe.

A small boy tugged on her free hand. “Mommy,” said Noah. “Is this the one?”

“Yes, honey. This is the truck that saved you from the accident. Well, actually,” she said, sweeping her gaze across the room to the heroes that worked this vehicle. “Actually, it was those men that saved you. This was just a tool they used to get there quicker.”

William, standing at the controls at the side of the truck, needed to add some information, as always. “Actually, mom, the truck also helped put out the fire.”

She smiled at him, as he went back to his inspection of the controls. “Mom, do you think they’d let us ride on it?”

“Maybe, Will. We can ask them later.”

She looked around, searching for Nico, her youngest. Her throat started to dry, her chest to tighten, as she looked. But the alarms stopped when she finally spotted him in the corner of the room, petting the station’s mascot with a group of older children. William, having completed his survey of the engine’s external controls, followed her gaze, and quickly ran to the quiet Dalmatian to get into the action. She motioned to Noah, and he followed along, walking with a slight limp.
She remember all the details of that day. The state of the bus driver and the others that hadn’t fared as well. The tears of the mothers, in both joy and sorrow. The now-closed bridge. Noah’s limp reminded her each day of how lucky her boys had been. William seemed to talk a little more, and Nico a little less. Noah’s limp was getting better. She saw the sorrow in the faces of those at the bus stop, its now somber mornings punctuated by the passing cars, parents driving by with their children on their way to school.

She knew it would get better. Right now it was still all too fresh in their minds. In their hearts. Today would help. As she drew her hand back, she turned to the center of the room, and saw a mass of swirling colors, a huddle of parents, children, firemen, dogs, all embracing, hugging, patting backs, shaking hands, laughing, crying.

She reached her hand to her boys, and while they hated to leave the beautiful dog alone, they understood, and joined her in the throng.

Behind her, the big red engine waited, content…

[Thanks to my wife Lesa for the germ of this story]