The swollen door would not budge and a part of me liked it that way. It was eight in the morning and I found it hard to believe that only twelve hours ago, my house sat four feet under water. Super storm Sandy swallowed my house whole and she only left me some crumbs. Everything I owned floated away. Crack! My front door was broken down and I giggled. That giggle grew into laughter, then into a sob and finally I broke down. My house and all of my belongings drifted out to sea with the receding tide and any leftovers sulked in piles around my house for days. Eventually, after a couple weeks of drifting around from home to home, my parents decided that we had to rebuild the house ourselves in order to save money. For a while, if I even thought of my home, I cried. I cried because I dreaded having to rebuild my house. I wanted to turn around and have a new house, but every time I tried, I found myself disappointed.
…show more content…
I made excuses to stay at school longer just to avoid going home. Wrestling became my refuge. The more I wrestled, the less I had to help build. Everyday I moseyed home from practice and began swinging some dumb, old hammer. Crack! My hammer slammed into a two by four. Then it hit me; I had to man up. I was not helping my dad fix the fence or paint a wall; I was rebuilding my house. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. When I realized that my parents rushed home from work everyday to rebuild the house, while I selfishly hoped for an extended practice, I was disgusted with myself. From then on, something changed in me. Crack! I splintered an old piece of wood. Crack! Another piece of moldy wood hit the ground. I happily flew threw every job given to me. I finished hanging a piece of sheetrock and I was already cutting a new sheet before my father stepped off the ladder. I rushed home from practice everyday and suddenly that dumb, old hammer did not appear so dull
I made excuses to stay at school longer just to avoid going home. Wrestling became my refuge. The more I wrestled, the less I had to help build. Everyday I moseyed home from practice and began swinging some dumb, old hammer. Crack! My hammer slammed into a two by four. Then it hit me; I had to man up. I was not helping my dad fix the fence or paint a wall; I was rebuilding my house. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. When I realized that my parents rushed home from work everyday to rebuild the house, while I selfishly hoped for an extended practice, I was disgusted with myself. From then on, something changed in me. Crack! I splintered an old piece of wood. Crack! Another piece of moldy wood hit the ground. I happily flew threw every job given to me. I finished hanging a piece of sheetrock and I was already cutting a new sheet before my father stepped off the ladder. I rushed home from practice everyday and suddenly that dumb, old hammer did not appear so dull