March 23, 2011 § 2 Comments
Would you mind if I went up to you and gave you my name? And maybe watched as you repeated it, careful not to get it wrong, your tongue rolling across your teeth, the roof of your mouth? How about the fact that I name everything I have? I hope you don’t mind that I talk so much, or that I celebrate Christmas the entire second half of the year. It’s because I like waiting– for good news, for dinner, in fancy doctor’s offices with aquariums and magazines. I hope you don’t mind that I name the things I don’t even have yet. I told you, I like to wait. The camera I’m saving up for will be named Rebecca, and I’m calling my first million Donald. I hope you don’t mind that I’m not very original. Someday, I will have a quaint little house in the middle of a forest, with vines creeping up old ivory walls, and it will be called something pretty and romantic. And there will be a lake not too far off, a living one, where we can jump off the dock and bury our toes beneath the fine round stones. And maybe you can help me name every last fish and snail and water lily, because I trust your laughter, how it sounds like warmth, and the sun. And I like how your silence is a little bit cold, not like a stare, but more like a dark blue night sky, covered in trembling stars. I will name every plane that passes overhead, one for each letter of the alphabet, until we reach Z, because you and me, we have all the time in the world. All our children will be named after songs, ballads of sighs and silent power. I can name this country, this feeling, this movement of my body, but you? You cannot be encapsulated in a name, like a wave washing through the entire world, before disappearing into the sand.