I slowly sink into my chair on the balcony, in my own home, for the first time in two and a half weeks. I put my feet up on a nearby potted plant that is basking in the sun, trying to regain life after being stuffed into a warm room with a damp carpet caused by the flooding rains. I rest my elbows on the arms of the chair and place my fingers on the ends. My nails dig into the ends of the arms, picking off the paint that’s slowly chipping off more and more each hurricane season. I lean back in the chair as it tips to a reclining position, I bring my knees to my chest, and I lean my head back into the sunlight. I shift in the chair trying to sit away from the soft spot in the chair, but it’s inevitable, so I slip back to my original position. For every second I sit there, I get bit by the mosquitoes but for once, I don’t mind. The mosquito bites remind me that I’m home and that I’m alive. They itch but it only lasts for a little and so will this sense of being absent minded.  

   I slide my head to the left and right trying to capture everything around me as if the world will disappear if I look away. I gaze out across the brown and dying grass that just a few hours ago was covered by the rushing salty ocean water. My eyes glance to the palm tree that stands in front of my window, swaying in the wind, and stationary. I sigh in relief knowing that at least one part of my outside childhood home still stands. My nose wrinkles as the bright sun glares into my eyes as it slowly dips behind the buildings and trees that remain. I feel my eyes water with each sight I see of my battered home. It pains me to see a place so beautiful and full of memories be stripped of that beauty but never the memories. My eyes swipe to the cars in the parking lot that were never able to escape the rushing waters. I see the grassy waterline upon the center of the doors. I see how the ocean has stalled out all the cars in the lot. The new light poles laying on the ground were made to make my city beautiful. Now they’re shattered, making my city look mangled. I look across at the houses across the water. Once upon a time they were bright and full of people shooting off fireworks, but now it’s dark and the only thing seen in the sky are the remaining clouds and birds coming back to see if their nest still stands. I want to close my eyes to shield myself from the sights but they have already ingrained themselves into my brain. I can no longer remember what my world looked like merely two and a half weeks ago. 

  As my eyes start to burn from my hot tears, I close them as if they are memories trying to escape my brain that’s overflowing. I try to listen for any sound of normality. I crave the sound of the grandchildren of the neighbors below, fishing and the squeals of joy when they finally catch each other in an hour long game of tag. I crave to just one more time hear the bridge going up even though I complain when it wakes me. I can’t hear the numerous cars speed over the bridge which makes home feel like home. I feel my ears strain to hear boats gliding across the water and to hear the people on those boats laughing and drinking. 

  I take a long sip of my tea that I’ve longed for since the day I left but it doesn’t taste the same. It’s made with bottled water we’ve had since the day hurricane season started. I wish to taste my refrigerator water, to go back to the way it was and get the water out of the fridge, to not worry about getting ill from the sewage water. 

  My nose wriggles to find a smell that reminds me of how life used to be and how it used to smell, but my nose inhales the landfill placed outside in the parking lot full of flooded furniture. My head turns as if trying to escape from the smell and I catch the smell of my damp carpet. I laugh at the smell until reality sets in that the smell is coming from my house. I feel my nose run 

  Home is still home but it doesn’t look, sound, smell or feel like home.