Ramblings of a Retired Mind

Esther

A Move and a Memory

Seven years ago, my wife and I left Chicago—the only home we had ever known—and moved to Polson, Montana. Retirement and the pull to be near our daughter and four grandchildren brought us West. Leaving behind friends, family, and the familiar rhythm of city life was no small undertaking.

Before the move, I found myself at my parents’ graves, saying a quiet goodbye. I knew they weren’t truly there, but I felt the need to honor their lives and the life I was leaving behind. Graves matter. They are touchstones of existence, proof that a life once was. Too many leave this world without such a marker.

The Pull of Genealogy

Decades ago, my wife and I became absorbed in genealogy. With much of the older generation already gone, we pieced together names, dates, photographs, and fragments of stories. We visited cemeteries, photographing gravestones as if gathering the last whispers of lives once lived.

But some left no trace at all. My mother-in-law, for instance, donated her body to science. Without a stone, how will she be remembered when her children are gone? This is why we do genealogy—to preserve not just names and dates, but the human stories behind them.

Esther’s Brief Life

One story that continues to haunt me is that of Esther, a great-aunt I never met. Her name—meaning Star in ancient Persian—seems fitting for a life that burned brightly but briefly.

Esther was the third of four children born to my great-grandparents, Ike and Rose Nathan: Sarah, Joe (my grandfather), Esther, and Anne. She entered the world in Pittsburgh on September 28, 1902. Only two photographs remain of her: one at six years old, another at fifteen, standing beside her younger sister Anne. That final photograph was taken just months before she died of epidemic cerebrospinal meningitis on December 31, 1917.

The illness struck swiftly and mercilessly. In today’s world, antibiotics might have saved her. In 1917, medicine had little to offer.

Remembering Through Silence

Growing up, Esther’s name was rarely spoken. My sister Ellen carried it, but stories were scarce. Instead, I knew her siblings—Sarah, Joe, and Anne—each with a warmth that seemed to radiate from their olive skin and hazel eyes.

My Great Aunt Anne once told me Esther had been her idol, with a laugh so bright it could fill a room. Whenever Anne laughed, I imagined I was hearing an echo of her sister.

Looking at Esther’s last photograph, I sometimes imagine her as they were—kind, compassionate, and radiant. What might have been if she had lived beyond fifteen? Marriage, children, a career? Those questions linger, unanswered, and that is the hardest part.

Keeping Her Story Alive

Though her life was short, we keep Esther alive in our family tree, in the stories passed down, and in the names carried forward. Her grave marker stands alone, far from family, but it offers proof that she lived. Proof that she mattered.

Some who pass may pause, read her name, and sigh at the life cut short. For me, that stone brings comfort. Esther lived. Esther was. And Esther is—alive in memory, alive in love.