My parents died in the Bucks County floods one year ago today. Their spirit pushes me through my grief.

Growing up as an only child, being away from my parents was always tough. When I left for my first day of elementary school, I cried. When I left for my first day of college, I cried. Even at the age of 28, when I left home to drive across the country for grad school — from Newtown to Santa Barbara, Calif. — I cried.

And now, on the one-year anniversary of losing both my parents to a flash flood that ripped through Washington Crossing — a tragedy that claimed the lives of seven souls — I also cry.

On one fateful evening, Bucks County — the place where I grew up and, years later, returned with my wife and daughter — was overwhelmed by six inches of rain in one hour. The local fire chief, Tim Brewer, said, “In my 44 years, I’ve never seen anything like it.” As my parents headed home from one of their favorite restaurants, a small stretch on Route 532 became ground zero for the flood. On either side of the road, water crashed down ravine-like hills, causing a creek to transform into a raging river that decimated the guardrail that protected an overpass. By all accounts, the victims and survivors were trapped.

In the blink of an eye, the only two people who had loved me unconditionally for my entire life — throughout their 41 years of marriage — were swept away. But, as I’ve learned over the past year, in many ways, they’re not entirely gone. Their spirit lives on within me and how I raise my daughter.

In the year since my parents died, I’ve tried very hard to maintain an upbeat attitude toward life. Yes, there are daily moments when I feel deep pain from their loss, but I consciously remind myself that I’m the luckiest guy in the world because I hit the parents lottery.

For 40 years, I had two perfect parents who doubled as best friends. Linda and Enzo De Piero provided me with an education in life: Through their words and deeds, they instilled in me values of kindness and common sense, hard work and humor, respect and resilience.

A real love of music, though, might’ve been their biggest gift to me. Though they weren’t musicians, music filled our home. When I was a little kid, I listened to Motown on loop because my dad overdubbed VHS tapes of Disney cartoons with Smokey Robinson, Marvin Gaye, and The Supremes. Years later, albums like Paul Simon’s Graceland, Eric Clapton’s Unplugged, and Mark Knopfler’s Golden Heart became the soundtrack of family road trips to the Outer Banks. Then, in my teenage years, my folks introduced me to this super-epic thing called concerts and took me to see Santana and the Stones.

As the rain crashed down on that fateful Sunday afternoon last July, it hypnotized me: I put on a vinyl my dad handed down to me — Steve Miller Band’s Fly Like an Eagle — and sat, motionless, staring out into the relentless power of nature. “Time keeps on slipping,” sang Miller, over the storm, “into the future.”

It most certainly does, yet in many ways, time has stood still ever since I got that phone call from my local police department — a stoic request for a face-to-face conversation as soon as possible. To this day, at my parents’ house — which my wife, Sabira, and I are slowly packing up — my mom’s calendar sits permanently locked in time: July 2023. The preceding pages are checkered with birthday parties and babysitting dates. The ensuing pages remain blank.

But believe it or not, a family heirloom-of-sorts has found a way to transcend time. When I reentered their house the day after they drowned, one of the first things I noticed was — music? Playing from the basement? Turns out, when they left for an early dinner that night, my dad had never turned off the iPod jukebox at his workstation. The timeless Frank Sinatra eased some of the acute heartbreak, greeting us with his signature croon: “Someday, when I’m awfully low/ When the world is cold/ I will feel a glow just thinking of you/ And the way you look tonight.”

Most days, I can almost sense my parents’ physical presence. While sharing a story with my wife during dinner, I can just about hear their laughter from across the table. In fact, at any moment, they’re on the verge of appearing in the doorway: right there, arms outstretched, eager to greet their only grandchild — now 5 years old — the rock-solid center of their universe. All like it was yesterday. Inevitably, though, before and after those fleeting moments, it also feels like an entire lifetime has already gone by.

Given the public nature of the tragedy, my wife and I have been blessed to receive overwhelming love from the greater community. Personalized gestures from neighbors and strangers alike have gone a long way toward helping us grieve. Sen. Bob Casey sent us a signed condolence letter, branded in formal United States Senate insignia, that resides in our living room. Beside it is a cherished gift we received at my parents’ funeral from the family of Mattie Sheils, 2, and Conrad Sheils, 9 months, who were killed in the flood along with their mother, Katie Seley. They handed me a framed biblical excerpt that states, “We glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

That precise sentiment — that humans all universally suffer, and that we can find solace in doing so together — has given me strength. There’s something unifying about sharing collective pain; it seems to be a vehicle for engaging in greater reflection and unity. In fact, in a rare display of bipartisan support, the U.S. House of Representatives recently passed a bill championed by Bucks County Rep. Brian Fitzpatrick to rename the local Washington Crossing post office to the Susan C. Barnhart Post Office in honor of its dearly departed former employee who also died in the flood.

To honor my parents’ legacy, I have a clear mission in life: to be the best dad I can be to their granddaughter. So far, I’d like to think I’m off to a good start, and it certainly helps that she loves music as much as my parents and me. When I drive her to day care, she requests her favorite band of the month — Daft Punk, Kings of Leon, or Santigold — and we crank it up real loud, as the rock ’n’ roll gods intended. And she’s like me in another major way, too: The other day, when I scooped her out of the car seat at drop-off, she didn’t want me to leave. She clung to me and — like I have countless times throughout my life, including that morning — she cried.

Zack K. De Piero is a Bucks County resident who teaches writing at Northampton Community College in Bethlehem.