He Played the Cello

January 18th, 1929

I’m writing this article for the survivors and loved ones to those who lost someone to the Titanic or war. Please read this…

I was born November 26th in the year 1912 and he was my father. An accomplished musician who boarded a ship that would never return. Sometimes I wish I knew more than another person stories about him, to cherish my own memories. To remember the feeling of a shared experience though the details may be skewed or even dwindle away.

At least I have some of his facial features and a passion for music, my mother said, only brought tears to her eyes as it embodied the passion that once flowed through him. And maybe she was right. For a similar passion to flow through my veins as it did his. But now that she’s gone too, there’s a whole that has now taken residence in my chest and I can not bare the weight of such emptiness. Without them, I am alone… so I play. Embracing the bittersweet feeling that keeps them feeling near to me.

Most people will never understand that kind of love and passion. To know, from the inner most part of their being, what it’s feels like to create a song of such pain and beauty. But my father would. He understood why the music had to come first, how it could stop time and affect gravity. He also knew it’s ability to transcend the desperation of a moment to provide peace and ease. Survivors of the Titanic say the band played a song, “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” as the ship deepened into its descent. He would probably say they added a calm to the people and the sea. Or at least, I believe that to be true.

And there are times I’ve dreamed I’m standing there. Watching him from across the room as he played his instrument; a cello. His steady hand gently guiding the bow about the strings, seated with feet firmly planted on the ground, back straight and his top hand navigating the intricacies of four strings: A, D, G and C. Amongst all the commotion they played with composure. Soothing frantic minds to reason and coherence. Momentarily exchanging the worry and terror their eyes held with a bit of clarity and peace. Gifting them with a moment to mourn a loss, pray a silent prayer, give a final embrace or even revisit joy. Having a moment in time to replay the scenes of their lives knowing, that if they had met their end, they lived there lives well. And history could never record these moments without that band or the aforementioned survivors. More importantly, it didn’t happen without him. My father died that day, April 15th, 1912 but not without engraving his name into history. I’d say he’s one of the lucky ones.

The reason I decided to write this letter, was to encourage and inspire others to do the same. To keep the memory of there loved ones alive. To find a way to etch their names into history as well. Though I have no guarantees that it’ll happen, we can have hope that the more we share… the more the world can hold unto.

It has now been 17 years since then and it seems like the world can not get out of this season of destruction. The war has destroyed so much. Now that it is over, it’s important to preserve the little that we do have. For there is an unrest that still exist. So be the author of your own story and tug your children in at night with those that will remind them of the greatness they come from.

Blessings and Peace unto you all.