I looked at the remains of my house, a set of pilings that stuck out of the ground, and some debris scattered here and there. Most of it was gone. Completely gone. Everything in it was gone too. Washer, dryer, bed, computer, desk, gone. Even the 85 inch TV. Gone.
“This isn’t what I dreamed of,” was all I could say. All I could think, as I wandered among the scattered remains of my home.
It was supposed to be a beach house, although a small one, that sat 10 feet above the ground, so floods would pass beneath it. A house where I could sit on the front porch, and watch the sunset over the Gulf of Mexico every night. Where I could come home from work, change out of work clothes into beach clothes, and walk, barefoot on the sand, for miles.
It was supposed to be my dream home. The place I would spend forever.
A Category 2 hurricane wasn’t supposed to push half the gulf on shore, and then dump 30 inches of rain on top of it. It wasn’t supposed to put my house underwater, and the water wasn’t supposed to take my house with it when it left, leaving my kitchen, bedroom, and the rest somewhere in the gulf, where the fish could live in it, and slowly turn it into a new coral reef.
But the storm had happened.
And everything I had, everything I’d been. Was gone.
It’s Week 431 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Given the events of 2020, I didn’t have to work hard to come up with these words. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up every week.