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April 15th, 1912
There’s been an accident. The ship Dad was on hit an iceberg. It was damaged. Badly. They said a lot of people died. That Dad died.
I just found out. I didn’t cry. I came to my room and started writing this. I can’t feel anything. My mind feels numb but my hands are shaking. This doesn’t feel real.
He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.
The words hold no weight. I can see and hear them and know what they mean but they have not gotten through to my mind, have not yet been comprehended.
Perhaps I’m just in shock. I’ll go to bed tonight and cry myself to sleep.
April 16th, 1912
I still haven’t cried. Does this mean I am strong or that I am heartless? Or maybe it’s because deep inside I know it isn’t true. He isn’t dead. They haven’t found a body, have they? Perhaps we just haven’t heard from him yet and have just been jumping to conclusions. There’s no need to grieve.
April 17th, 1912
We still haven’t heard anything from Dad. I wonder if it’s possible he’s washed up on a deserted island with no means of contacting the outside world. I wonder if I can steal a boat and sail out to sea in hopes of finding him.
I’ll continue to tell myself these comforting lies for as long as possible.
April 18th, 1912
I wonder if I did steal that boat and sail out to sea if my boat would sink on its journey as well. If Dad did die we could be reunited under the sea.
April 19th, 1912
People are being sent out to recover the bodies of those who didn’t make it. They haven’t found Dad’s yet. Hope remains.
A part of me wishes they wouldn’t go looking. A stupid thought I know. But if they did find Dad’s body I would have to stop thinking he’s alive. Stop dreaming. Stop hoping.
Everyone’s telling me I should stop. Everyone’s telling me he’s dead. I know that. I’m trying to believe that. But I just can’t. There must be a reason I can’t.
April 23rd, 1912
Of course he’s dead. They finally found his body. And this time I did cry. All day it feels like. I scream at anyone who tries coming through my door, at anyone who tries even knocking.
I’m still denying it. They’re wrong. It’s someone else, not him. Someone else who had his same initials sewn onto his jacket.
All the evidence keeps getting shoved in my face but I still continue to deny deny deny. I keep waiting for him to walk through the door and hold his hands out for a hug that I can run into but he never does and never will again.
He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead—
May 10th, 1912
I’ll figure out how to steal a boat. I’ll find Dad myself.