When she was little, I used to pull her close to my side, slip her the end of the silky fabric, and pretend she was helping me sew. I held the needle, tight between my fingers. And clumsy, uneven lines pressed two pieces together.
But her deep eyes would widen. She jumped up, grabbed the finished garment, and held it up.
"It's like a princess! But it's my size! Can I try it on, please, please, please?"
I always said yes.
But right now, I'm cold all over. She's not a girl anymore. She's taller than me, with slender fingers and blushing cheeks. She's a beauty, and everyone knows it.
And today she has to leave me.
I hear her already, her feet slipping down the loft ladder. She's barefoot, like always, her feet tough from dancing through Shushan's dirty streets. And when her feet meet the hard ground, she turns. Hair swings around her shoulders. Her eyes laugh.
The young lady slips her arms around me. She hugs. Tight. Her dress is white and soft, fluffy ruffles around her throat.
We don't say anything at first. I turn to embrace her. We stay there. I swallow hard.
And then she releases her breath. "I love you, Dad."
We part. I can't say the words back, or I'll cry. And a guardian's job is to be there for her.
I inhale deep. "What would you like to do... your last day?"
She grins. "Why, don't you remember? You tore your tunic coming from the king's gates yesterday. I'm going to mend it."
I reach out, touch her arm. "It's okay. We only have a few hours."
"I know," she says, her voice softening. "I wouldn't want to spend it any other way."
She finds a needle, and brings out my best clothes, the silky blue that matches the king's colors. Sitting before me cross-legged, she bites the string, slips it into the eye of the needle, and her hands fly like no one I've ever seen.
I sit here, above her, watching the top of her chestnut curls as she sways to the pulse of her stitches. She hums, slightly, the way she hums when she's nervous but tries to hide it.
I squeeze her shoulder. She keeps sewing.
And I want to cry. Because when her parents died and I took their place, I thought it would be service to tend to her. And somehow, I fell in love with the one who calls me "Dad." And I never want to let her go.
I remember the verses, written more than a century ago. The promise, the bittersweet pain.
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you;
Before you were born I sanctified you.
God's plan was good; why did it hurt to let go?
She snaps the string off. Folding my garment, she hands it to me and smooths the blue silk in her small hands. She smiles, but it's shaky.
"All done." She stands.
I grab her fingers, press them in mine. "Thank you," I say. "I'll think of you every time I wear them."
She smiles but then grows serious. "Don't tear it again, or I'll have to bring my needle and thread into the royal palace." She tried to put on a stern face, rolling her eyes.
We both laugh.
I look her over. This girl, somehow my child. The soft, white dress on her shoulders. Dark hair. Endless eyes that are soft around the edges.
"Don't be sad," she whispers. "God's got this, remember?"
I nod.
"Your favorite verse. 'Before I formed you in the womb...'" she pauses, prodding.
I finish. "I knew you."
Tears well up in her eyes.
A carriage rolls up to the door, crunching on the cobblestones and loose pebbles. Suddenly, she grabs me. I feel her trembling.
"Shh," I press my lips against her hair. Her silent body shakes against me, and I wish I was taller, stronger, able to take her away from this future she never wanted to live.
"Dad." Her fingers curl into a fist. "If the king doesn't choose me, if he doesn't love me..." She shakes her head. "I'll be stuck in a harem forever. I'll never see you, never leave it, never be loved."
I shook my head. "No, you'll always be loved."
She steps back, tries to smile. Her eyes are edged in red. "Sometimes it's hard to remember."
I still see her fear written across her face, but she's a princess. And this is the story God was writing for her.
She turns, walks toward the door. Then, pressing her fingers to her mouth and then the mezuzah on the doorpost, she leaves.
I follow her out the door. The carriage is edged in the King's blue, matching my garments. Around the edges are pearl beads, white against the sapphire color.
But she's even brighter. The white dress swishing around her ankles. The light in her eyes. The way she smiles at me.
I stand tall, for her, and because God's plan is good.
She smiles. The carriage leaves for the King's courts.
It hurts like a hammer is slamming against my heart, but I keep standing. Looking upward, I blink back tears.
And then I turn inside to put the needle and thread away for her.
Want to do your own study on the life of Mordecai?
~♥~
No comments:
Post a Comment