She may not have known the impending sentence upon per people, but
for Esther, beauty was a means to live. Her manicured fingers
grazing her ruby lips over dinner caught the eye of the king,
the tight ringlets of her raven hair were an emblem of hope.
For my grandmother, Esther, beauty was a means to live: her manicured fingers
red, the color that reminds us of how much we have to lose.
The tight ringlets of her silver hair were an emblem of hope,
a sign that there was something left to live for in those last days.
Red, the color that reminds us of how much we have to lose, must have filled
young Esther’s thoughts. Touched by the latest story of Mordecai’s integrity,
a sign that there was something to live for in those days.
That night, her pretty eyes closed with the assurance that life exceeds chance.
Esther’s thoughts, touched by the ancient story of Mordecai’s integrity
into her pious old age, began to drift and fade into the evening.
That night, her pretty eyes closed with the assurance that life exceeds chance.
She wasn’t named Esther for nothing. Like Esther, she must have made a difference.
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