One bright, cheery morning when I was in second grade, we were coloring leaves for our “turning a new leaf” project. Yes, I guess that day was the perfect time for that particular lesson. I was called to the office, and when I arrived my father was there. This was odd. My dad worked on Tuesdays. It was around ten – what brought him here? He looked calm, but I could tell he was worried.

On the way home, I saw people standing on their stoops shaking their heads. “It’s terrible,” one woman called to my father. What was going on? As we turned onto a busy street, I saw hundreds of parked yellow taxis. These belong in the city – cabs rarely came out to Brooklyn.

When we reached home, my dad flipped on the television. As I ate my lunch of pizza, my dad told me to watch. I saw what seemed to be the New York City skyline, except in the middle was a cloud of black smoke that almost entirely hid the Twin Towers. We flipped from channel to channel, always finding the same scene. When the camera zoomed in on the large holes and fire engulfing the buildings, my father gasped. People were running and screaming as debris blanketed the city. But I didn’t pay much attention; I was enjoying my pizza.

“Watch the TV. This is going to be important in your life,” Dad said. I ­didn’t understand that a horrifying ­attack had happened, and if I peeked out my living-room window and looked into the distance, I could see it with my own eyes.

Some people call it 9/11. Some call it the World Trade Center attacks. But no matter what the day is called, I’ll always remember the blare of the fire trucks and police cars that roared through the city. I’ll never forget watching hundreds of these heroes run into the blazing buildings, some never to return.

We look up to celebrities who entertain for a living, but we rarely acknowledge real heroes. They are the ones who risk their lives to ensure the safety of others. To me, heroes are the firefighters, the police, and the paramedics who, while the city was under attack, put the lives of strangers before their own. They ran into the buildings as they burned, hoping to save a few people. Always prepared, just like any day, they acted. According to some sources, as many as 411 emergency workers died on 9/11, out of the 2,900 or so people who were killed.

So this tiny essay (whose heart is so big) goes out to them. Wherever they are, I hope they know how much they are loved and respected. I clap every time I see a fire truck blare down the street. I smile and wave to every police officer because I know of their courage and sacrifice. May all those who perished rest in peace, and those who survived live honorable and healthy lives.