The River Runeth

(Contains references to the flood that occurred in Kerrville this summer)

The banks still haven’t returned to their normal selves 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 your yearly hunting trips. No, the rain was a constant presence around here. So nothing to be alarmed about. Sure, at times it could outstay its welcome like the overly talkitive 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 it’s chatter against our window panes turned in a roaring tone that ripped through the very soil our foundations laid on.

Which is exactly what happened here. It destroyed everything it came into contact with. The Blad Cypress, American Cycamore, and Cedar Elms stood no chance against the river’s saturated fury. It was almost like it had had enough of our constant pillaging of its natural resources. It’s Rainbow and Brown Trout that satisfied our outdoor sportsmen’s fancies. I, for one, was not a fisher by any means, but did enjoy the occasional camp out 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 was he in all this? It’s a question that many have asked over centuries when an unthinkable tragedy occurred. One so random and vicious it left the victims asking, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’. It’s a question we all were 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 + something actually happening. Sure, they knew for years that a flood could happen. It’s happened 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. For the most part, it was successful. Only ten didn’t make it.

Only ten. I say that as a means of coping and to lessen the blow of what we’re going through.

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 or one of his prophets had performed another miracle and that we should all repent before it’s too late. Some of the small-minded folks in this tiny but mighty 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 emergency services supplied us parents with gave us. It went like this, or from what I can remember, I threw my copy in the trash the moment we got home; my wife still has hers: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

First denial, I know it’s 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 here. When the agonizing waiting period of not being able to look for her because the waters were too high, I knew she wasn’t in our humble abode anymore. An abode that’s no longer humble. Not anymore.

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 thinking of killing one of the surviving members of the camp’s staff. I talked him out of it, I think. I guess we’ll find out 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, that’s 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 she existed. The last place any of them last appeared. 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 the river…would wash away my tears.