Titanic: At Journey's End

True love is hard to find. Sometimes you have to travel far and wide to discover who you are. Sometimes, it brings happiness. The ending of this love story, joyous or tragic, brings hope, mercy and dignity. It all starts on the RMS Titanic.

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1. Prologue

Prologue

2nd March 1912

Blink. Keep blinking. Don’t let the waterworks come on. 

I bring a hand up discreetly to my eye, covering up the wetness on my upper cheek. If I start crying, the hugs and the ‘I’m so sorry, Lisette’ s will begin again. I’ve never been one to enjoy the limelight, even as a child. It seems wrong, anyway, to bask in the pity of others at such an occasion.
I bring the cotton hankie to the corner of my eye again, just quick enough to wipe away another stray tear. 

I blink quickly, turning my eyes away from all the other people. 
The coffin looks so dark, so disturbing, as it is dropped into the sodden earth of the cemetery. I cannot help buut visualise mother’s ash-white, limp figure being battered within. She was such a fragile thing. So slim, with a waist you could fit one hand around, and shoulder blades like knives. I see her now as I always did: small, so little next to father, with her warm chiffon shirt, the buttons from her own sewing box, and a long, coloured and flowered skirt. My favourite was the blue one she sometimes wore. It was the colour of a river: rushing and tumbling, forcing itself through the riverbanks with ravine-like sides. Moreover, it was the colour of her eyes. 

I guess that’s the colour I always associate with her. River blue. Cobalt. I hope to always remember her that way. 

“I’m so sorry for you loss, Lisette. Your mother was a wonderful women,” Ann takes a tentative step toward me, her mouth stretched into a forced smile. There are tears in her eyes. 
I smile back. “Thank you. Thank you for coming.” 

All of my grudges about Ann Jenkins seem to slip away as I watch her push away the tears that are starting to drip down her face. She really was good friends with my mother, despite her irritatingly saint ways. I should not have been so harsh on her. 

One by one my close, and not so close, relatives clasp my hand and speak a few words of sympathy in my mother’s remembrance. I thank all of them with dry eyes – thank goodness – and then leave to stand by the grave. The ugly grey stone is something I want to smash. My mother wasn’t that sort of colour. She wasn’t a dull, granite-grey. She would’ve wanted blue. I picture a cobalt-grave stone in my head, engraved with a poem, perhaps, that she loved. I’m sure mother would’ve appreciated something like that more than this.

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