The fishy and salty stench of the ocean hit my nose as I stood in the sand, hand in hand with my mother. We stared out at the calming waves ahead, less calm than we appeared. Our home on the coast of Chile had been destroyed. It was a seemingly normal day, my father stood in the kitchen sizzling up empanadas de pino while dancing alongside my mother to music I thought was quite corny. We heard a rumble. Before we knew it, the water had hit. It destroyed our home, our family, our life. My father was swept away and didn’t make it. They tried to save him, but failed. I still remember the feeling of clinging onto his dead body, the taste of salt water in my mouth and my wet clothes constricting my movement. We moved away, we couldn’t stay any longer. We fled across the globe to a cozy home in Spain. Sure, the place is nice, but there’s always the feeling of someone missing. It feels empty. We had walked down to the ocean trying to face the fears and forget the memories. I glanced up at my mother with a stoic look as my stomach grumbled. “Mother… let’s make empanadas.” I spoke quietly, glancing back at the ocean once again. She smiled softly, giving me a nod. We walked back home, choosing to face the ocean another day. At home, the nostalgiac scent of pastry mixed with meat hit my senses as my mother cooked. I flicked on the radio, playing the same corny love song my parents had danced to before the tragedy. Both mine and my mothers bodies swayed to the music, tears beginning to drip from our eyes. The tears didn’t feel sad, they felt nice. They felt comforting. I knew it was time to start a new beginning, and I knew I’d have support the whole way through. Support from friends, family, and from my father above.