Where She Sat

Every so often, a particular memory resurfaces—one that, with the wisdom of adulthood, takes on an entirely new meaning. This one comes from my childhood, spent mostly along the Frio River in Concan, Texas.

From about eight years old, weekends at the river were our ritual. My mom eventually bought a few acres, and it became our second home. We camped there—our land—while spending our days a couple of miles away at a small park that gave us access to the river.

For a few years after her divorce in ’77, it was just the two of us. A quiet, steady rhythm of mother and daughter.

My Mom had a spark—playful, a little wild, and completely at home out there.

Concan sits in the heart of the Texas Hill Country—clear, cool water winding through limestone, cypress trees stretching over the riverbanks, sunlight dancing across everything. In the summer, it could be crowded—families, coolers, laughter echoing across the water, every good spot claimed early.

But this day wasn’t like that.

It was quiet—almost too quiet.

I don’t remember many people at all—no clusters of campers, no steady line of tubers drifting by. It felt more like a weekday than the busy weekends we were used to. Open. Still.

The Texas Hill Country—open, safe, and mine to explore.

The part of the river we loved sat just beside Neal’s Lodges—
a place full of hidden corners I knew by heart.

The Bear Cave. The Blue Hole. Casey’s Fall. 

Names I had given them myself, as if I were claiming little pieces of the world.

Trails crisscrossed the area, and I wandered them freely—sometimes with my mom, often on my own—completely at ease in a place that felt like it belonged to me.

“Bear Cave”—a name I gave it, and a place that felt like my own little discovery.

One day, I ran into a couple of older kids—teenagers, I realize now—near the river. I was probably ten. A total tomboy. Completely trusting.

I started showing them my favorite places—the ones that felt like mine.

We wandered through the quiet, nearly empty campground, cutting across areas that were usually filled with people. I proudly pointed out the Bear Cave—one of my favorite places to explore. Massive boulders sat stacked and scattered, like they had fallen from the cliffs hundreds of years ago. At least, that’s how I imagined it.

We searched for tadpoles in the shallow water, moving slowly along the edges, but I also made sure to take them to what I considered the best spot—the deepest part of the campground. A place where one large boulder sat alone in the water, the surface dropping off into something darker and quieter. It felt different there. Still. Like its own little world.

I remember feeling proud—like I was letting them in on something special.

The deepest spot I knew—quiet, still, and a little mysterious.

At some point, they asked if I wanted to join them for dinner. I told them I needed to check with my mom—it was getting close to dark—and they didn’t hesitate. They walked back with me without question.

We headed toward the park—the one we used during the day, a couple of miles from where we camped.

I didn’t realize then how much she was always watching out for me.

As we came around the bend, I saw her.

She was sitting alone at one of the concrete picnic tables.

Everything else was gone.

The cooler, the tubes, the lawn chairs—the usual mess of a full day—had all been packed up and put away. That alone told me something was off. I always helped her pack everything up. That was just what we did.

But this time, it was already done.

It was just her. A drink. A book sitting open in front of her—one she clearly hadn’t been able to read. Her cigarettes nearby.

Waiting.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, casually introducing them. “They invited me to cook out with them.”

Her response came fast and sharp:

“No. We need to leave. Right now.”

There was no discussion. No softening. Just urgency.

The boys backed off immediately.

At ten years old, I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing—but I felt it. Something wasn’t right.

Looking back now, I think she was caught somewhere between two instincts in that moment—relief that I was okay, and anger that I had been gone so long. The kind of split-second tension only a parent could feel.

But what stayed on the surface was the urgency.

We were leaving.

What I didn’t realize then—and what she never needed to say—was what those hours must have been like for her.

Now, I can picture it. Calling my name into empty trails. Walking farther and farther, trying to stay calm while something deeper starts to take over. That moment when time stretches just a little too long, and the questions begin.

Where is she?

Is she okay?

I had wandered farther than she could find me. Out of sight. Out of reach.

And I had no idea.

As a child, I was just doing what children do—exploring a world that felt safe, trusting the people in it, never questioning that I would be fine.

But now, I see the other side of that day.

Not as something I did wrong—but as something she carried.

The fear.
The waiting.
The not knowing.

My mom is the one who taught me to love the outdoors—to wander, to explore, to feel at home in places like that river.

She passed away in 2011, and she is still my best friend.

I still tell her I love her most nights before I fall asleep.

And sometimes, when this memory comes back, I think about that day—not from where I stood—

but from where she sat.

Alone.

Waiting for me to come back.