|Author:||Billina (Authenticated as Billina)|
|Date:||June 23, 2012 at 6:11:32 PM|
|Reply to:||Since the board has been kind of slooow... by Billina|
August 15th, 1912
I do not consider myself a writer, but I feel that a diary will keep my jumbled thoughts in order. At the very least, it will help me come to terms with the fact that Albert is dead. Mother says I need to accept this if I hope to move on with my life, and I know she is right. Mother is an irritating woman, but she is always right. Perhaps one day I will have a daughter of my own and understand the need to drive her mad with constant corrections of her behavior, dress, and so forth. I can only dream.
It has been a rather hot summer, and Mr. Porrell at the general store says the thermometer peaked at 95 the other day. Balderdash. I knew this was only an excuse to keep me in his store longer; Mr. Porrell is old and lascivious. He went on about the temperature at length, as if it were some awesome event, but I swear it wasn't one degree hotter than 80 outside. He eyed me up and down, shamelessly. That man is disgusting, and Albert would never have let him stare at me the way he does. If Albert were here, he would have had words with him, I'm sure of it. Smiling at the thought, I took my purchase and left the store for the meadow, where I always go to think about Albert. I sat in the grass and stared at nothing in particular until sunset, then came home to mother's disapproving, icy glare. I was supposed to come straight home from Porrell's.
"This won't do, Margaret." Mother pursed her lips together in a firm line, and I could tell she was very angry indeed. "The boy is dead. Gone. If you continue to mope about, people will start to think there is something wrong with you. You want other suitors, don't you?"
Do I care if I have no other suitors? Is the life of a spinster really that terrible?
Albert was more than a suitor, he was love. He knew me since we were both children, playing with our tin soldiers in the meadow, ignoring the shouts of our parents so we could stay together a little longer. I can't remember a life without him. I do remember his blue eyes, bright and inviting, full of laughter. They are all I see before I go to sleep at night. They haunt me, but I don't seem to mind.
They tell me he was supposed to be on another ship, the Adriatic. At the very last minute they switched him to the Titanic, and he was thrilled. He was going on the greatest luxury liner in the world, and he was coming home to me. It had been six months, and he was ready. He wrote to say he had found an opal ring just the right size for my finger. He could not wait.
It has been several months, and no one has found his body. I often picture him lifeless, bobbing in the North Atlantic, turning blue. I simply can't help it. I would give anything to push these morbid visions aside, but they are consuming me. If I am not seeing his lovely eyes, I am seeing his bloated, blue body. No matter where I go or what I do, I see him. Albert .
He will never go away. He will occupy this space in my mind forever, this space that was once full of tin soldiers and endless summer days.
I will be a spinster, and Mother will have to live with it. I will have to live with it. I will live with Albert's ghost, the blue of his eyes and the blue of his lifeless body filling my vision, blue on blue, until I can no longer see any other color...and I do not care. I do not have it in me to exorcise the ghost, I haven't the strength.
I will stop writing tonight and sleep.
"An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."
"And by the way, dearie, your punctuation sucks canal water!"
-The ghost of Vivian Vance
This message was edited by the author on June 23, 2012 at 6:20:12 PM
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