There was nothing like Esme(e) adamant faceted like diamond by diamond clarity above price attracting youth, desire, endeavor, memories, and regrets their pale shades.
        Esme(e) stood before them, she strode before the women in the meadow when a wink of light dashed gold from her shoulder, she turned upon them shaming with her bold hazel eye seat of compassion, source of passion, for there was no question but that Esme(e) suffered and knew and was the knowledge of torment and survival and was the fashioning of them into sweet restorative grace.
Hearts would break, voices would break like hearts broken cries like children and wounded birds lost in the vortex of echoing beats, cries, calls, dreams.
        No 1 should be left alone like that.
        Esme(e)?
        Violet's sister?
        All?
        Any of us. 
 

        "We could save her," Esme(e)'s voice throbbed in bones, vessels, tissues of the women. Her eye glinted in proud estrangement from diluted ways of the common and ubiquitous. "We could save her. We must!"