Flares

Wandering in sepulchral silence among the artifacts dredged up from the ocean floor after almost a hundred years dinner plates, a diamond ring a pair of patent leather shoes, a deck chair jeweled combs that once sparkled in a young woman’s hair under the electric light of the chandeliers a violin in its case, a porcelain vase a china doll, another child’s toy a menu listing the last meal that many would enjoy a wall upon which were the names of every person known to have been on board the exceedingly rich and the profoundly poor who with high hopes sold all they had to purchase their third class ticket Though they were the majority they weren’t a priority buried as if they were already dead below deck kept strictly separate, forbidden to be seen by those whose lives were considered more worthy by merit of their money How little has changed in over a century I entered the last room of the exhibit my breath creating clouds in the refrigerated air as I stood before a wall of ice the same temperature as the salt water that surrounded them that night twenty seven degrees fahrenheit My palm went numb when placed upon it a sensation similar to that of my soul after a life spent sailing my own stormy seas I communed with the spirits of the crew commiserating with those who had frantically fired flares in a futile search for a savior to come to the rescue I do the same from my own sinking ship with no more success No one sees or no one cares