My house lies on top of a mountain that has an incredible view of the Mediterranean Sea. When I look down from my house, I see the mountain's feet touching the water softly. Typical to our region, our house has a French architecture styling that my grandfather and then my father maintained for many years. To be honest, my house is the weirdest looking one in my village because it has a hexagonal shape and only one floor on a hill with three doors and two of them do not work. I can still remember the red roof I used to climb on with my brother as we used to watch the stars shining brightly at night. My favorite part of the house was the kitchen because it was small and the smell of the food that was cooking. The smell always crept out towards the rooms, which lured us toward our soon-to-be-ready meal.
I grew up as part of a large family that consisted of my grandparents, my parents, my four siblings, and myself. The house was always busy and crowded from the first ray of sunshine until the last. My grandmother said once before she made her transition to a better place: "A father stands as strong as when he kneels to help his child ". That's my father, always a morning person: he would wake up really early to go to work and come home late; he didn't have much time for us. All his thoughts were on how to provide food and shelter. We could not wait for him to come back home to jump on his back or play basketball, soccer and all the other crazy sports. My dad used to be a swimming champion back in his day. He taught us how to swim professionally like a fish in the water. One night, my brother and I were swimming and when we swim together, we always go crazy. We started doing backflips when suddenly, I slipped, hit my head and blood started to flow in the water. I couldn't focus, but I remember my brother crying and yelling, "Help, Help. " I was instantly taken to the hospital, my dad stayed over with me for three nights, not sleeping, but raising his hand to God asking him to heal me as his tears fell down his face.