The fire engine stopped outside the house where I grew up

Dear Delyara, I am a firefighter, and tonight we were called to the house where I grew up. My parents sold it fifteen years ago, but I recognized the cracked stone mailbox before the address came through the radio. Smoke was pouring from my old bedroom window. Training took over. We entered, located the family, and brought out a father, mother, and two children. Everyone survived. Only afterward, while pulling damaged plaster from the hallway, did I see the pencil marks my father made to record my height. The new owners had painted over them, but heat had peeled the paint away and revealed dates, numbers, and my childhood nickname. My colleague asked whether I was all right. I said yes because there were still hot spots to find. The fire had destroyed the room where I learned to read, hid cigarettes, and heard my parents decide to divorce. None of those rooms belonged to me anymore, yet watching the ceiling collapse felt like losing the past a second time. Before leaving, I photographed the height marks. The youngest child from the family stood beside me wrapped in a blanket. She asked whether I knew the house. I told her I used to live there. She said, “Then it saved two families.” I do not know exactly what she meant. I have been thinking about it all night.