Grandfather built, with his own hands
The house we children called our home.
A fine expanse of stone and brick,
a castle that was ours alone.
That was before the threatening storm
turned us into refugees
The howling wind, the battering surge
Let loose the Ocean’s enmity.
Of our fine home scant trace remains:
Some stone and the foundation walls
Keepsakes and memories long displayed
Sadly we have lost them all.
No loss of life, no death to weep
But still a sense of loss pervades.
The certainty of Youth is gone
And fallen trees can give no shade.
We’ll build again with our own hands
The house our children will call home.
I think, perhaps, on higher ground,
Where Ocean waves do seldom roam
There we will make new memories
Those things we lost will matter not.
We have each other, that is enough.
We’ll build our heaven on this spot.
Compiled from anecdotal stories and the very real destruction of my wife's parents home