The banks still haven’t returned to their normal levels since the waters rose and came rushing in. The warnings weren’t there either. Sure, the rain announced its arrival, but that wasn’t an uncommon thing. Not like a relative that visits only on the holidays, or a friend that comes around for yearly hunting trips. No, the rain was more like a regular gathering among friends and family whose company you enjoyed, like the warm food they brought to consume. So nothing to be alarmed about. Sure, at times it could outstay its welcome like the overly talkative uncle who only rambled about politics you weren’t interested in. But just like an awkward conversation that went on too long, we knew when to leave early, or at least prepare before the inconvenience of its chatter against our window panes turned into a roaring tone that ripped through the very soil our foundations lay on.

Which is exactly what happened here. It destroyed everything it came into contact with. It was almost like it had had enough of our constant pillaging of its natural resources. Its Rainbow and Brown Trout that satisfied our outdoor sportsmen’s fancies. I, for one, was not a fisherman by any means, but did enjoy the occasional campout along its banks. Preparing by fire and smoke, deliciously cured meat that would even serve as a worthy sacrifice to the Jewish God of our world.

The word God is another name thrown around here lately. The question being: Where the heck was he in all this? It’s in line with another question we were all asking. What did we do to deserve this?

The simple answer is: nothing. None of us did. It’s just a simple equation of opportunity for something to happen, and then it actually did. Sure, they knew for years that a flood could occur. It’s happened here before. The last time was 1987, and that tragedy struck a camp too. Just like the one that struck the ground where I’m sitting in my camp armchair as if I’m about to do anything other than sulk. They tried to save the teenagers in that scenario as well.

The eerie thing that comes to mind as I stare at the steady stream of water that continues to move forward is that it keeps moving forward. Like nothing tragic just happened over a week ago; that it’s moved on. Unlike us. Not that anyone can blame it. It is water after all. I suppose if it stopped and stood still, we would all be running to the chapel, thinking God had performed another miracle and that we should all repent before it’s too late. Some of the small-minded folks in this tiny town expect a rapture every few years, so it’d be right up their alley.

I, however, instead of expecting a miracle out of this, am experiencing all the multiple stages of grief at the same time. At least, according to the list the grief counselor supplied us, parents with. It went like this, or from what I can remember, I threw my copy in the trash the moment we got home: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

First denial, I know it happened, I know my daughter isn’t here. I know this because I checked her room multiple times since getting the call that they found her body. When I lost contact with her as she was leaving the camp on a school bus in an attempt to escape, I knew she wasn’t in our humble abode anymore. An abode that’s no longer humble. Not anymore.

Now the anger...oh boy, is it there. It’s been a moving target since the incident occurred. First, at the camp, for thinking they had things under control and waiting so long to evacuate our children, children that we sent to them every year, knowing they’d be safe. One father even admitted to me in private that he was contemplating killing one of the surviving members of the camp’s staff. I talked him out of it, I think. I guess we’ll know eventually. But then my anger turned towards myself. No matter how much my wife has tried to convince me otherwise. Hell, we’ve had to convince each other. I still blame myself.

Of course, we know we did nothing wrong, similar to a parent who loses their child in a school shooting. The only fault you had was not being a deadbeat and making sure your child at least had an attempt at a good education. It was the same for us; all we did was send our daughter to summer camp. The same thing we’d done every year since she was old enough to go.

I think I’ve skipped the bargaining phase, so at least I’m one step ahead of the other parents. The depression, however, is not going anywhere anytime soon. Which means the last step of acceptance will probably never come. I don’t think anyone is expecting that stage from any of us.

How could they? The entire nation is still reeling from it, and before the flood struck our town and the surrounding areas, I doubt they’d even heard of Kerrville. Most Texans had only seen it on a map, or a road sign, or casually mentioned in a weather report. That, and the local university, was probably the only thing that kept us on the map, and I’m speaking literally.

But now I’m sitting in the last place I saw her. The last place any of us laid eyes on them. Where we parents who came to know each other over the years, as we said goodbye for two months to our kids. A goodbye we always knew was temporary, that unfortunately has now become permanent. Wishing that it had never happened. That the river never rose to the point that it washed away all that we held dear. Now wishing that that very river…would now wash away… my tears.