A Pocket Watch is a Barrier

I‘ve been looking all over the sea. It is still terribly cold.

All I can find are dark corridors and overwhelming amounts of coral and debris. They are bursting through the familiar pipes and dressers that I once touched. The drawers that I put my clothes in are barren.

Where did everyone go?

-April 10th, 1912-

Dear Ana,

Time is the Atlantic. It is a physical barrier on my front pocket and in my vision.

Tumultuous waves and unpredictable ventures are frequent against the setting sky.

I want to say I love you now, when I mean it. But it is too soon.

Time is a barrier.

Yellowed paper held the sorrowful cursive lines of a fading gray pencil, all crumpled deep inside the thick cotton linings of my pocket. Rain that once pounded on the brick roofs of the town’s banks and businesses overhead was slowly clearing out. Heavy clouds above me morphed from dark swirls to timid puffs of white.

I’ll make her another poem when I arrive.

Leather suitcases in each of my hands were brushing against the coats of busy passerby, as I raced to find the long ramp for third class. A ship of dreams, I suppose.

Even when I scoured the boarding passengers, knowing she wasn’t there, I continued to look for her in everything.

My eyes were drawn upward as I approached the dock, seeing the glamorous contrast to Southampton’s poor. The Titanic’s main deck was bustling with the freshly pressed gowns and suits of the wealthy. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, loading trunks and precious cargo to private suites while the low hum of the lesser status quo filed into the sunken levels of the glistening voyager.

There is nothing to think about at this point, but wind and sea.

”Will you be joining me?”

An exuberant voice yelled from a few feet behind me, breathless in the last word as a red haired man approached from my right.

He was dressed in poorly patched clothing, dirty from the week’s labor. He held so much hope in those green eyes that it almost made me wonder when love would reach me again in new lands.

“Morning. I suppose I will be.”

I answered him quickly, mumbling as I gripped onto my bag tighter. I wasn’t expecting this disheveled man to befriend me in such a manner, but I must try to be cordial.

The red hair fell to his face, with a few strands covering his eyes against the sun.

“The name is Andrew. How about yourself?”

”Well, I-“

I was always quite shy as a child, and it never left me in the years of adulthood.

He laughed, patting me on the back and chattering on as we made our way to the cabins. What was provided for third class was minimal, but sufficient for our stay onboard.

There was a larger area to smoke, with oak wood paneling. I concluded this area is where most of my time would be spent.

“Where are you from?“ Andrew asked with an eagerness to his voice that I could not match.

”London.” I answered shortly, grateful for his kindness but also wishing for time away from these long winded conversations.

“Fancy enough, I am from Belfast.”

”Isn’t that where this ship was made?” I asked, now curious.

”Precisely, at Harland and Wolff shipyards. I worked nearby for quite some years. What are you holding?” Andrew asked, looking down at the golden chain that was left dangling outside of my coat.

“Ah, my pocket watch. Would you like to take a look?”

”Yes, of course. It is a magnificent piece you have here.”

”I saved up for it, cost me a month’s worth of labor.” The conversation wasn’t as burdensome anymore, as we settled into our quarters before heading to the dining room.

“Now what else do you do for fun, eh?” Andrew asked about any ladies waiting for me, about my family, and how I spent moments of peace.

”I like to write. Poetry, mostly. I have one here for Ana. We met in England as kids, but she moved away quite some time ago.”

I handed over the crumpled piece of paper, intending to be thrown overboard so I could begin anew.

”This is very good. I am sure she will adore your work.” Andrew smiled, and let out a deep breath before standing up again.

April 12th, 1912.

We are slowly reaching our final destination. Andrew and I have made friends, despite the crowded sleeping conditions. It’s been calm, and the sea has been forgiving.

The more I got to talking, I explained the strange numbness I have felt for years on end, and the lows of working for the post office. It was a tired life, and I longed for more. I wanted to be reunited with Ana, but I still felt so far away.

“What do you love about her most?” Andrew asked.

“Her patience. She has this gentle spirit that draws you in further. I have known her for so long that she feels comfortable to me.”

”Love won’t always be comfortable, you know.”

I paused. I suppose he could be right. But I will handle those emotion whirlwinds at another time.

April 14th, 1912.

A silent wave jolted the membrane of the entire ship.

My pocket watch struck the hardened wood of the floor, and I watched its face burst into a mosaic of cracked glass.

Ana appeared before me, picking up the pieces and vanishing again when someone knocked insistently on my cabin door. The others scattered amongst the room jumped to attention, buttoning their shirts with a look of confusion.

Something was wrong, but I wasn’t sure what yet.

The lower decks of the ship were eerily still, waiting around for news about the unfamiliar scraping sound. We listened for an explanation in deafening silence.

The engines would not run for very long. Andrew remained asleep.

April 15th, 2003.

Ana and I saw each other in fleeting moments. She had picked up my pocket watch, and I saw her again in the water. Her long skirt was thrown around violently in the bitter wind before becoming soaking wet in the needles of water. The delicate face she carried looked at me, worried, before fading again.

I know she is still around because when I come up from the surface, I can see an aged grandmother with her handwriting on the book she is reading.

She sits on a bench at the coast of New York, still waiting for us to be together.

Even through the depths of the Atlantic, I can’t place where my love lies.

I miss Andrew dearly. I still haven’t found him yet. Perhaps, I will give him my pocket watch soon, with the poem I wrote for him.