She lay there dying.  Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. The time we tried so hard to stave off had arrived.  The room began to shrink. My head felt light. Somewhere in the distance I heard my sister begin the final prayer in preparation for mom's departure. Our mother took one last breath, and then she was gone. 

My brothers and sisters were all around, but I hadn't noticed them before. The silence was broken by muffled sobs. 

Staring at at her face, I noticed the lines had softened. She was free from all her suffering.  

I touched her hand and thought back to when I held that hand to cross the street as a little girl. I remembered them as she brushed my hair and could still feel her gentle hands gather me up. They lay so still now; their work all done. 

And there we were, all seven of us, middle aged orphans. 

Esther from Hester, she was fond of calling herself. Born on Purim, March eighth, 1914 in a tenement on Hester Steet on the lower east side of Manhattan. Her father named her after Queen Esther from the Book Of Esther that Jews read on Purim. 

She was the first born American, unlike her siblings who were born in Syria. Esther was very proud of the fact that she was "first generation American."

From a pious orthodox Jewish family, Esther had an older brother Ezra, two older sisters, Naomi and Luna and a kid brother Al, also an American. She loved them dearly and remained completely devoted to them and they to her until the last days. 

Still, American or not, old world traditions and strict religious laws remained intact in her father's house. Protocol was not to be modernized or trivialized. Respect then and very much now, was never to be a thing of the past, especially respect for Jewish laws, customs and elders. 

The small Sephardic community grew. Everyone moved, almost as one, from the lower east side to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.  Esther began school at P.S. 205.  Her parents, persuaded by her sisters, allowed her to continue her education and graduate the eighth grade. Everyone was needed to work to keep the family afloat.  Esther always credited her sisters for taking on her share while she attended school. 

After graduating, Esther worked for her father who operated his own linen shop in Far Rockaway. Every day she traveled two hours on the Green Line bus from Flatbush avenue to far Rockaway. She opened the store and remained there to close up late at night. It was grueling schedule for a thirteen year old girl, but she was no longer exempt from participating in family matters. 

Years passed.  Business was not good for her father and eventually he closed up shop. 

Esther found work in an exclusive linen store on 5th avenue in Manhattan. Socialites frequented the establishment which boasted the finest in table linens as well as hand woven Persian rugs, hand carved ivories, jade and artifacts made of semi precious stones. It took a vast amount of knowledge to sell these pricey items as well as charm and grace. The selling was left up to the salesmen. Esther assisted by writing up the sales. 

Joe was a salesman there.  He was magical. He possessed intelligence, an enormous vocabulary, charisma and humor. He was worldly, charming and disarming. Esther had caught his eye. 

Joe swaggered into her life under protest from her parents. They wee no match for this meticulously dressed, big spending romantic figure. He took her breath away. 

She lay there dying. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow.  The time we tried so hard to stave off had arrived.  The room began to shrink. My head felt light. Somewhere in the distance I heard my sister's voice begin the final prayer in preparation for Mom's departure. Our mother took one last breath, and then she was gone. 

My brothers and sisters were all around, but I hadn't noticed them before. The silence was broken by muffled sobs. 

Staring at her face, I noticed the lines had softened. She was free from all her suffering.  I touched her hand and thought back to when I held that hand to cross the street as a little girl. I remembered them as she brushed my hair and could still feel her gentle hands gather me up.  They lay so still now.  Their work all done.  

And there we were, all seven of us, motherless.  Middle Ages orphans.