I think that life is kind of like living on the beach. There are downsides, but for the most part, it’s beautiful—your hobbies are the coconuts; though they might be small things, they’re treats that bring you much joy. The seashells that wash up are your favorite songs, and your mundane little pet peeves are the crabs that roam. The warm sands against your feet are the loved ones that fill your heart with joy.

The waves are your memories. Some are minute things that go as quickly as they come, like the time someone stopped you in the hall and complimented your outfit, or the time you caught the eye of that boy and he smiled at you. There are some that are much bigger; these are the ones that teach you lessons and have the ability to stick with you for a long time. And finally, the tsunamis—those are the waves that change you, the waves that destroy and reshape and force you to rebuild from the bottom.

In the spring of 2008—April, I believe, my family endured one of the worst tsunamis that our little shores could endure.

The sun poured down into the city from its pedestal in the clear skies. The few clouds that gathered against the blue canvas gave the impression of whipped cream being served fresh from the container. Slight and gentle, the breeze blew just strongly enough to make my mother’s daisies sway with the wind and briskly brush against each other. Our little two-story house stood as quaintly as it always had. In fact, the day was as beautiful as any other spring day—I’d had no idea that it would turn out so ugly.

Honestly, I don’t remember vividly much about that morning. However, at about eleven, I got called down from my first-grade classroom with all of my things. I trotted down the stairs, happy that I was leaving, but pondering curiously about what had led somebody to come so early in the day to pull me out of school. When I made eye contact with my grandmother through the thick glass door of the office, my curiosity dulled and confusion had risen. I racked my brain for answers; however, my grandmother’s blank-slate facial features conveyed none to me.

When we stepped outside, I had to narrow my eyes. The bright rays of the sun blinded me momentarily and I hadn’t been able to fully recover until I sat down next to my brother in my grandmother’s mahogany Ford.

I glanced over at him. My stomach churned when I saw his eyes; they seemed empty. Foggy. He seemed gone. He stared off in a daze at nothing in particular as if he were frozen. I went to ask him what was wrong, but my voice got caught in my throat when a feeling of black tar bubbling in my heart arose, a feeling that would revisit me many times in the next six years.

Still without answers to my many unasked whys, I stared out the window. For a stretch of time, I found comfort in seeing Williamsport’s tree-lined streets and highways. The stripes of greens and browns and tans that were appearing to me kept my mind busy. But, eventually, everything cleared, and my view changed into something so exciting that I fell asleep.

~

“Belle, baby, wake up.”

When I blinked into consciousness, I sat up in a panic. I had been lying on a small couch surrounded my chairs with identical upholstery. The room smelled stale and it was not dissimilar to the fading scent of bleach. The walls, which were a grimy, flat white, were lined with dull pictures of things nobody cared about and old TVs screening the news. Small wooden tables dotted the room here and there, each one lined with pamphlets with words I’d never seen before and far outdated magazines. The sky outside had darkened to a bleak gray; due to lack of distraction, I looked around the room for somebody to answer my questions.

Where am I?

I turned my head and saw my father, who was sitting in the spot beside me. He looked at me with tired eyes and I furrowed my eyebrows in anxious confusion. He put his hand on my shoulder, and that’s when I had abandoned all hopes for good news. After all, my father never appeared as melancholic as he did that day. Though, I will admit, that was not my tsunami.

“Let’s go see your mom,” he said in a voice that was hardly above a whisper.

I stood. He set his hand on my shoulder and led me down the dull hallways that reeked with the scent of latex gloves and plastic. The despair of my area soaked into my very veins, and the blood coursed through them with a chill in every drop. A nurse here and there sent a sympathetic look my way, but it did nothing for the uncertainty in my heart except worsen it.
We stopped suddenly in front of one of the many faux wooden doors lining the blank hall. My father rested his hand on the door for a moment, hesitating, and after a short while, he twisted it—albeit reluctantly—and pushed the door forward.

He walked me to the side of the unwelcoming bed, the bed that seemed more like a device to carry out dead bodies. I didn’t quite realize who I was looking at at first. Her fact was pale and gaunt and sunken, and her deep brown hair had lost its sheen and its lively hue. She slept soundly, and the peace on her face abated the effects that her infirmity had on those who laid their gaze on her. Her breathing was slow, but the life support machine next to her bed beeped in constant intervals. The tsunami hit the shore.

“Mom?” I breathed.