Disclaimer: Not mine.
They walk away from the bus, tired, dirty, beaten. Another night at the Pile. Their feet fell heavy on the road as they made their way back to their sanctuary, towards beds that beckoned them to hurry. The candles and fliers right outside the door was a normal sight now, as they trudged past into the building. Now was not the time to stop and wonder at the sudden generosity and kindness of the average citizen. Now was the time for sleep. Beautiful, dead sleep. They haven't had any nightmares yet, not really, because they're so tired that when they do get to sleep, they pass out and to wake them is like waking the dead from their eternal sleep.
The city has suddenly, and unnecessarily it seems to them, dubbed them heroes in the midst of tragedy. To them, the firefighters, it was routine... run into a burning building, put out the fire, save people. To the city, it was as if God had come and blessed them one morning with these brave men and women who ran into burning buildings while everyone else was running out. The city finally realized that firefighters died, too, just by doing their job.
And even now, when the fire is out, they are still there, digging through the rubble of what once used to be the tallest two buildings in the city. In the night turned day, they pass buckets down the line, full of debris, and then back up, empty. Though the task may seem tedious at times, they can't bring themselves to leave. Because this is where many of their comrades and friends are lying. Entombed by the rubble, part of the dust they inhale. And they inhale deeply, trying to be closer to their fallen brethren.
One firefighter stops in front of the firehouse, in front of a woman and her little boy. And he takes the homemade card the boy hands him, tears in his eyes.
I'm sorry the plane hit the building.
Love, Sam