I had wandered the ship decks one by one; travelling lower and lower into poverty the closer I got to the boiler room. I strode through the carpeted First Class halls, lights bright and women wearing dresses worth more than my very own life, then proceeded to the Third Class, where young boys in tattered clothing would play among the barren corridor. I admired the architecture created by skilled hands then was promptly plastered upon the whitewashed walls, losing character the farther I was under the roaring sea.

The morning and afternoon of this day was quite a troubled one. We had visited Queenstown to load more passengers onto the unsinkable ship, so though there were many more who had arrived onto the floating hotel, they were either unpacking or settling into their new bunks, going to attempt to enjoy the journey to the infamous America. There, the land of opportunities, as we've been told, holds greater hope for anyone who is a woman or working class. For me, I happen to be both. I had also arrived with the batch of those from Ireland, but nonetheless, I decided it was far better to explore where my start to my everlasting devotion and life was. The RMS Titanic. The unsinkable, unbreakable, most luxurious liner that happened upon the deep ocean blue. Yes, this ship was created for those who seeked freedom, for those who expected and yearned for better living conditions.

Many people aboard the ship were foreign, speaking unknown tongue to my virgin ears, and were constantly crowded in small groups, not wanting to socialize with those who knew the English language. Despite the borders of language and culture itself, each one of us had a desire for something better. Some, mostly the rich, are on a short break of their terrible livelihood while others, like myself, are stepping onto American soil to have a new fate.

This trip across the Atlantic is the most important thing I could do in my short twenty-six years of life. Awaiting in the West, awaiting in a place given the name Idaho, waits my baby boy, though he is no more a baby than I am a toddler. Only seven years of age, and my boy, Seamus, has ventured with a good friend of mine to the wondrous land. Through our tears, I promised him while caressing him in my arms, consoling him of what’s to come, that I would seek to find him. That I would join them as soon as I could and that he should stay the young man he was always meant to be; gentle, kindhearted, respectful. Just not to weep and feel sorrow for his widowed mother. Moments after that, he was torn from my arms and carried away to the boat that would drift him to his new home. I have not heard a word of him since, only seen him from the single photograph of him I have in my possession, even though it has been four months when I last held his body in my arms. Thinking of him now, after watching the other children rushing past me, I take out the photograph.

His cap lies on his dark brown hair lightly, not pressing down onto his skull, but just resting. He has a light complexion with light green eyes, though you cannot tell from the photo. I stare at Seamus in the picture, then lightly press my lips to it. “I’ll be there to join you soon,” I whisper to the non-living object.

Now alone once again, and onto the second lowest deck possible, I seem to wave back and forth from the current of the ocean. The Third Class passengers must be immune to seasickness, for not a single one has been heard hurling through the perfect, white doors leading into each cabin. Lucky for me, I was able to scrape enough of my savings to purchase a Second Class ticket, in hopes that I could speak of my fortune and tell of the beauty when I returned to my son.

By the time I make it back into my own cabin, it’s early in the morning. The sun is still gone and will not be up for a handful of hours, so only the stars can shine us through the night, even though there’s not many stars to see ahead. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at a new photograph, the one of my late husband, Patrick. While working one day, he collapsed on the job, or so I’ve been told, and later passed away that night from typhus. He is the only man I’ve ever loved until I gave birth to his son six months later. When Seamus arrived, I held him in my arms and cried. I sobbed for the fact that the man that was my life would never meet his beautiful son. Oh how he looks like Patrick, oh how he acts the same way. Everything Seamus does reminds me of him, which makes my love for my son even greater than ever.

While thinking of my upcoming life, I’m thrusted forward. My roommate does not wake from his slumber, and as the engines stop humming, my curiosity grows. I exit the room and look into the hall, noticing only some people running by with life vests on. Stewards sprint past me until I am able to stop one. “Excuse me sir, what is going on?”

He fumbles for his wording, pointing to where the other members of the crew are going and slowly retreats from me, soon running around the corner and out of sight. The experience makes my heart sink. The ship's engine must have broken somewhere in the process of moving across the Atlantic, and I will be delayed for a period of time until I go through Ellis Island and onto American soil. I go back into my room to notice my roommate wide awake. He lazily lights a cigarette, then sits up in bed, his back against the wall. He mumbles in an English accent, “A big bump, eh? Do you think she will sink?”

“Of course not. She’s unsinkable,” I reply with, setting down onto the canvas.

He smirks at me. “Everything is sinkable. A rock. A soul. A ship. It’s more than likely possible.” I ponder his remark until he lies back down, abruptly putting out his half gone cigarette. “Wake me when we’re halfway submerged.” Before I could answer, a loud knock and a loud voice erupts. “Get your life jackets on and go onto the main deck!” It yells, with several other voices echoing the single one. My roommate immediately turns back around. “Well my, that was quicker than I thought,” He dresses himself, his breath stinging my nostrils with the scent of alcohol, and hands me a jacket. “Here, put it on. You’re going to need it.”

I watch him leave and follow in pursuit, but lose him in the sea of strangers. Everything happens so quickly. I’m shoved onto the main deck where we stand like sitting ducks until a crew member shouts women and children into the boats first. I shove and push, but when I finally get to one lifeboat, not even half full with only perhaps ten people or so, it’s landing onto the surface of the water. Disappointment swarms my being while realizing several other not quite full boats leave. The scared and worried push me out of the way, closer into the inner deck.

I can feel the ship slowly sink into the frigid water and see it swarming the decks. It moves towards me like a lion chasing it's prey, making me panic for my safety and realizing that it's not just a broken engine, but the ship hit something. What that something is, I do not know. I stand there, holding onto a table that’s nailed into the floor, hoping that I won’t slide down the steep hill that is now the Titanic, not quite sure what to do when the ground beneath my feet shakes violently. Shrieks are heard over to my left and glance over to see the ship split in two. The lower half, which is what I was luckily not standing on, sinks into the ocean while the half I’m on slams back onto the surface of the sea.

I scream with the others when we continue to sink anyways. I wonder why not everyone was able to be rescued from the lifeboats and why the boats were half empty with the rich. The rest is in a blur. People sliding down the decks into the chilling water and I shiver even as I watch. I notice how no matter what I’ll do, I’ll end up in the water, so for some reason, I decide to jump. It hurt. It hurt so much I felt the need to cry and let myself drown from the pain. But I resurface only to see the unsinkable ship sink.

Yelling and shouting and people are all around me, so I remove myself from the crowd and swim to a desk that’s floating nearby. I grab hold and wait for the lifeboats to come receive us, but while the shouts are less frequent and the night gets quieter, I realize that they had left us to die. Numbed and cold, I take out the photograph of my son and stare at his face. A voice, closer than the others, is heard by my ears, and I look up to see my roommate. “Chilly night, eh?” His attempt at trying to lighten the mood falls on my chest with a blow. He shivers. “The name is Thomas. I-I hope the lifeboats will arrive sooner.”

I don’t answer but look at the photograph. I paddle towards him, who is also floating on a beam that once belonged somewhere on the ship, and hand him the photo of my son. “P-please. Take it. F-find him as s-soon as you get there. M-m-my son. He lives in Idaho. His name is S-Seamus. Tell him I-I loved him.” Thomas holds the photograph with a face full of astonishment and looks up at me with disbelief.

“I can’t. You’ll make it,” His breath no longer reeks of whiskey. “You’ll make it.” He looks and sounds a lot like Patrick. “You’ll make it.” His voice seems so distant. I think of Seamus and how his life will be affected and how he will grow up, perhaps not even remembering my name and silent tears run down my frozen cheeks while the wails of hundreds of souls still linger.

I didn’t make it.