“Oh my god,” I yelled, looking out through the car window.

What stood before me was nothing like the house that I had lived in for the past twelve years. Hurricane Sandy, a night of endless rain and terrifying thoughts, had ruined it. I slowly got out of the car and walked toward my home. The door barely hung on its hinges, the number twenty lay amidst scattered leaves. I gave the door a slight shove. What I saw immediately brought tears into my eyes. There wasn’t much left of my living room at all, save the overthrown furniture. The glass from our shattered windows swept across the whole area. I shakily stood up on my feet and heaved myself onto one of the remaining chairs.

I remembered scenes from the previous night. I heard the leaking water that rushed into our home, and felt the panic that rose as I realized we would have to walk through this storm. I heard my mother screaming beside me as she carelessly threw our belongings into a duffel bag. My dad rushed downstairs, and he struggled to keep the basement door locked so the rest of the house wouldn’t flood. The electricity had then went off which led my whole family into a frenzy. I attempted to comfort my little brother, who whimpered beside me.

The time finally came when there was no choice but to run through the hurricane. I hesitantly stepped outside and was immediately slammed into by the wind. My parents had already agreed that we would go to our friend’s house which lay unharmed atop a hill. The usual five minute journey seemed longer as we forced ourselves through the powerful storm. I winced as the rain started to seep through my jacket and held back cries from the force the water had against me. We had been walking through darkness for what felt like an eternity until I caught sight of a familiar, warmly-lit house. My family staggered towards the home using the last of our strength to push ourselves up the stairs. I fell into the arms of my friends before sitting down on the soft carpet.

I saw that others had also made their way inside the house. The smell of soup lingered in the air as bowls were handed around. I quickly gulped down my portion before observing the other people there. My eyes caught those of a weeping boy as he took shaky sips of his soup. He held a ratted, old teddy bear closely by his side as he tried to hold in the sobs that were mercilessly escaping from him.

All the people before me were in the same situation as myself. It was comforting to see that I wasn’t the only one with a lump in their throat and soaking clothes.

The next few weeks were spent in the company of five other families who had managed to escape just in time. The same little boy that had struggled to eat his own meal was now carrying heaps of wood from place to place. His name was Max and he had a passion for the performing arts. He wanted more than anything to make his family proud and he had a quirky habit of drawing all over himself. Yet, this boy became one of my best friends and even today we are still very close.

Max’s house still hasn’t been rebuilt and he had to make a permanent move away from Staten Island toward a safer place. I, on the other hand, was lucky and after only two months I moved back into my own home and my happiness no longer depended on an infinite amount of chicken noodle soups.

Going through this experience changes a person. I learned that not everything lasts and when you’re down on your knees and helpless, someone will always pick you back up. Having people there with you will make you feel as if there’s nothing wrong in this world.