Digging into memory, findings can be tinged with many things: humor, longing, embarrassment, messiness, clarity. This time it was tinged with wonder. Like my very first thoughts here, the act of writing “Ester” (a lyric essay, as I am reluctant yet drawn to call it) was pure discovery, an attempt at best. The editors of Burrow Press Review were kind enough to publish it. And, my lovely husband, sweet enough to offer a perfectly-fitting image for the occasion. The moment was brief. The essay is brief. And yet, the place it came from worth every bit of stirring up and dwelling on much longer: how and when do we decide to take a particular place or person or moment in time and uncover, assign, interpret meaning?
Here is “Ester.”