Two weeks ago, I passed a house I walk past every morning.  I'd never met the people who live there, but on that morning I watched a festive cluster of people outside taking pictures--parents and three little girls.

In each window of the van, a name was scrawled with shoe polish.  

The three girls were posing, each under the window with her name on it.  

I slowed my gait to watch the simple ordinary moments of a family getting ready to go someplace, three little girls dressed up like Easter morning, their parents calling their names.  Hurry up, nice, stand there, stand by your name.

I only remember one of the three names, Kellyanne. 

We exchanged no words, only smiles, but I kept thinking about them, as if storing the whole happy tableau for future reference.  

I would likely not have recalled any of this except for today's tragedy.

As I walked Luci late this afternoon, I spoke with a neighbor who told me more of what I already knew about yesterday's  flood that had caused the entire Camp Mystic to be evacuated.  "Over 700 girls had been camping at the church camp when the Guadalupe rose too fast for anyone to escape," he said.  

Jan had told me earlier that 23 little girls were still unaccounted for, and one of them lives on our street.  Her first name--Kellyanne. 

If I am this gutted after only seeing Kellyanne that one morning, I can't even imagine the devastation of all who love her and are still holding out hope that she's alive.   Her young parents, her two little sisters.  Her teacher and classmates at the elementary school at the end of our street. 

The continuing rain today, the grey skies, Mother Earth weeping.