“Your father was a firefighter”

Hey Mom!, he called from the attic door,
What's these old heavy boots and helmet for?

With a lump in her throat and a tear stained cheek,
His mother swallowed and started to speak.

Come here my son, his mother said,
There's things to tell when I clear my head

The past raced madly through her mind.
She searched her heart for words to find.

At last she signed and rubbed his hair.
And the words that followed I like to share.

Those boots and helmet, she said with pride,
Were worn by a man with grit inside.

He wore them to help people in need,
Though facing danger would never concede.

Many a time in the dead of night,
He jumped in those boots and he flashed out of sight.

To answer a call, not knowing for sure,
What danger or heartache he may have to endure.

Your Father, my son, was not like most dads.
It was mainly because of the job he had.

His life was devoted to all mankind.
Just why he chose it, not clear in my mind.

I've often regretted the life that we led,
When every third night I was alone in our bed.

But your mother is proud to say that she was a part,
Of a man who possessed such a courageous heart.

So the memories I've kept and the love I will save,
Are the small consolations for the life that he gave.

Yet, for all his discomfort and all of his pain,
The time that he spent here was never in vain.

I know full well these words to be true.
And not one word did she misconstrue.

But from all my Mother shared that day,
It's these last words that I would like to convey.

My mother, with tears, gave a long loving sigh,
And I knew what would follow was not meant to die.

With a smile so warm and a voice very weak,
She kissed my young brow and started to speak.

Your father's days here made others seem brighter,
For your father, my son… was a firefighter.

Author: Unknown