This is a story of hope in the face of hopelessness, beginning in spite of many reasons not to.  It is not a sweet story, but rather a tough one…sometimes you begin again anyway.

 

Journey of Hope

by

 Karen Phillips

 

 “Isn’t she beautiful, Moira?”

“It’s a ship, Sean, not a lady.” Moira lifted Liam so he could see.

“Ah, but you’re wrong. She’s a fine, beautiful lady waiting to carry us away.”

“Will it really be better, do you think—America?”

Sean stroked her cheek. “It will be better for Liam, and better for us. In America, no one will tell us where to live, or what crops to plant, or how to worship. In America, people are free.”

 *

Beautiful lady. Sean shook his head as he looked at the cesspool surrounding him. Had he made a mistake? Narrow bunks stacked three high. A handful of lavatories and saltwater basins for 300 seasick people. No water allowed in the sleeping compartment, even when someone vomited on the floor.

Moira and Liam huddled beneath one small, thin blanket, all their belongings at their feet. Damned shipping line wouldn’t even provide storage.

The filth and stench and cold were taking their toll; Liam had developed a ragged cough. The nurse gave him a dose of castor oil and sent him away. Only yesterday, Liam had been entertaining the passengers. “Me Leem,” he would say, followed by a stream of babble, English and Irish words interspersed with baby sounds.

*

There were only five in attendance at the funeral: Sean and Moira, the ship’s captain, and two crewmen. Moira hadn’t spoken since Liam’s death.

The crewmen lifted the tiny, canvas-wrapped bundle and slid it over the railing into the cold, gray depths. “No-o-o!” Moira buried her head in her hands. Sean tried to hold her, but she jerked away.

“Mr. Sullivan, if I could have a moment.” Sean hadn’t heard the captain approach. “I need to complete the paperwork, sir. If you could just make your mark here…”

Sean snatched the paper. “I can write.” He was vaguely surprised at the anger in his voice. He turned back toward Moira, wishing the men would leave them alone. The deck was empty.

“Captain, did you see—” Simultaneously, they noticed the shred of calico fabric clinging to a nail—calico the color of Moira’s best dress, the dress she had worn to bury her son. They rushed to the railing, but she was gone.

Sean slammed his fist against the rail, relishing the pain. His cry was swallowed by the frigid waves. He paced the deck furiously, until he finally collapsed against the cabin, head buried in his arms.

The captain directed his men to leave the deck. “Sir, shouldn’t we get him inside so he doesn’t…”

“Leave him be, Stanley. The man will do what he must do.”

 *

Sean stood at the railing as the sun rose. He wanted to escape his pain as Moira had, but something deep inside refused to let go of the hopes and dreams. A distant light caught his eye. As the sky grew brighter, he saw what it was: a welcoming torch, lifted high in the sky by a fine, beautiful lady.