Things have washed away. Photographs, toys, books, children's drawings and their first attempts at writing the alphabet, bowls, combs, dresses, shirts, everything. I look around my cluttered apartment and I wonder how I would feel if I watched it all sweep away in a sudden rush of wild water. There's nothing I can sum up from the depths of my imagination that would compare. Nothing. Not even nightmares that have awakened me, shaking and unsure of where I am, can compare. And even the attempt to understand the feelings of one who stands ankle deep in muddy water looking at the ruin of a home once filled with life and love makes me feel very small.
In the shadow of the growing numbers I feel small.
Things have washed away, yes. But the people... the innumerable people. People who will never know the fate of their loved ones; people who will lie with nameless others in deep graves once associated with the cruelty of men, not of nature. The aged find themselves parents of babies. Children wander in search of their parents. And those who live must set aside their grief in order to rebuild.
And when the water is wrung from the houses, and the cars disentangled from the trees, then what?