What's in a...?

I recall the day you chose me. You sat in her lavish parlor, trying to dodge the curls of smoke from your Aunt Fran's incredibly strong French cigarettes, when I rolled off of her tongue. I was mixed into a string of other comrades who all became inconsequential when you heard me. From the moment my syllables entered your ears, you were certain I was the right choice. Your decisiveness cemented my existence. In your vision, my perfect complement, Joy, lost out to Gil's family name, Rose, but no matter, you fought for me to be first, and Rose fit well enough behind me. I still remember those disagreements with Gil, asserting his choice as law. He was, "when you got right down to it", the one who paid the bills, but that was also more common in those times. Besides, "when you got right down to it," you were the one who carried my owner, and that held weight, in more than just your belly. You never once allowed me to vacillate with any of Gil's choices, but your unwavering certainty has made the pain of my being forgotten that much worse.

Though I was always real to you, another, slightly less captivating, but still fixed, option was often mentioned in the same sentences as myself. I would trail this option or vice versa, and people would chime in about which of us they believed would win. My opponent, Clinton Grant, even topped the other half of the list that you had written, on one of the precious pages of your wedding stationary. I never was written on either side of your list, but I was there, in your mind, and on the tip of your tongue when your hand released the florally embroidered pages into the small, bedroom wastebasket, letting so many of my competitors fall to their fate.

It took another three months, of convincing but Gil changed his mind about me. When that day of fear and warmth finally came, on the last day of July, you held onto me in thought, knowing each push would tangibly connect me to her. Once born, you gifted me, a life long companion, to your daughter. Though, to me, it felt the other way around. I finally became real to more than just you, and I held an entire being’s reality within my nine letters. You spoke me to her first, connecting us for eternity. That was also the day I lost the syntactical companionship of Clinton Grant, only to hear mention of him, and no longer in present or future tense, a few times each decade that followed.

In the days before your daughter, you'd hum me into hopeful tunes and nursery rhymes. Those syllables felt like a never ending slip and slide of fun. When my owner arrived, with all the apprehension and joy, you printed me tidily before signing next to Gil, claiming me and my owner as yours. Each of my four syllables was properly placed, making me official. You painted me, in soft, sage green, not knowing whether my titleholder would grow to love pink or blue the best, onto the thin walls of the bedroom right next to yours. In the first year, you waited patiently for my owner to recognize me, and cursed me under your breath when my owner wailed each hour of the night. In these moments, I doubted myself though you never did. By a young four, my owner had begun to write me, though I was never spelled correctly. I looked horrible scribbled on the hallway wall in purple marker, and you’d shout me, sending my proprietor running in terror, before erasing me with hours of knuckle-burning scrubbing. At ten my owner was scrawling me inside her notebooks, mixing me with the initials of her crushes, and for years, you were constantly reminding her to put me on top of her homework. These were the peaceful days, filled with monotonous harmony.

You used me less as your heir grew, for with her independence came your own, and you joined the workforce, despite Gil's disapproval. Still, you'd make it home in time to serve a time-saving Crockpot meal, and you'd call me out, to my owner who played outside, with her friend Susan, each evening. These times you often had to repeat me, or stress my syllables, drawing them out so I could be carried by the wind, across the field behind your home. I felt free and flowy when I traveled on the wind. Eventually, your time away from my owner, and her hormonal changes, created rifts between you two. When you did speak me, it was often in a chastising or corrective tone. Sometimes, you'd add Rose behind me, to get my owner's attention when she ignored you. Like, I said, Rose wasn’t a half bad second in command. I would be breathily released from your lips when you were exasperated, and during this time, we both heard my owner renounce me for being "old fashioned." I knew this to be somewhat true, because she had been teased on account of me. This is when she shortened me. My syllables and letters halved. This was a time of failure for myself, but you never saw it that way. You waited patiently for the adolescent years to unfold, acknowledging me when my owner wouldn't, and remembering the early days of how you'd fought for each of my letters to exist.

Around twenty-five years after you created me, my owner began to embrace me wholly and embrace you once again. I began to show up on your caller ID and you'd hear my owner's qualms with adulthood, and give her your motherly advice, that she would finally receive. You could brag to anyone who listened, practically singing me from your lips. In these days I felt as if I was always uttered through a smile. The following year, my owner made her own list. This was one of those few times per decade when Clinton Grant made an appearance, as you spoke of his possibility for existence once again. You also reminded your beloved of my discarded complement, Joy, and my owner too finally tossed her paper away, awaiting another, July certainty.

Another decade, or so, and I began popping up on your cell phone. You could read me in large letters, set up by my owner for your aging eyes. I’d be split by a hyphen, too large to fit on just one line. Your car's Bluetooth, would introduce me, startling you from your aging thoughts, safely notifying you so you wouldn't crash. In these instances, you'd hear me spoken in robotic tones and still, scramble at the sound of me to connect with my owner, whenever she called.

I know I am now considered "old-timey," so it makes sense that others wouldn't think of me as much. However, you've encountered me in some way, each day, for longer than my possessor’s existence. It comes as no shock to me, Clinton Grant has faded from your mind completely, but next month my owner turns fifty, and to you, I will be fifty and three months, and I'm dangerously close to reuniting with Clinton Grant, in the place of no remembrance. You've since forgotten Joy as both my perfect accessory and as your granddaughter. It makes sense that you no longer remember her friend Susan, especially because you had little time to meet her, when my owner was growing up. I can see Gil in shape and sound, next to me in the dark place behind your eyes, more illuminated than myself. Maybe its because you had more time with him? Gil is also easier to say than me. But, I can't help but wonder if you loved Gil more than my keeper? I know she sometimes feels the same way too. The silence of not being spoken can hurt more than you’d expect.

Doctors told you this disease would be like this, but you'd have bet against forgetting me. Still, I can see your recognition of my owner extends only slightly to her face, and partially to her kinship with you. Even those memories have become hazy beside me in this storage area of your brain. Not much remains fully intact, and I find it strange that a few songs have held together better than me. You once used to sing me, yet, I’m now faded like a ghost.

I am here, waiting inside of you, but the path for me to travel through your voice box has seemed to almost disintegrate. I have never before left your decisive love of me. Please come find me and let me out of your lips. I am asking for you to whisper me in recognition, or yell me out in joy. I'd even settle for your chastising tone or, God help me, a cry of terror. I want to echo through the nursing home vents, and I want to leave your mouth once more for the voyage into the sounds of your daughter’s ears. For if you don't find the path, I won't even remember the last time it was used.

"Mom?"

Recognition of her should be illuminating my road to your mouth, but instead you stare blankly at her. I feel the lock down mode of your brain trying to set in, which has been happening more frequently. It is like a “hault!,” that jolts you when ordered out of the blue. You grit your teeth, fighting its power, but sometimes there is nothing you can do to stop the fog of disconnect that it brings. I know the path through your anatomy! From each stop in your vocal cords to the muscular mountains of your tongue, I've made the journey thousands of times in my existence, but still, I can't reach it without your help. When you fall under “hault’s!” command, it is a chilling freeze that threatens to break my now brittle path between your teeth.

"It's me, Mom. I'm your daughter, Henrietta."

Kinship flickers, barely sparking, next to me and finally, I turn on as well. You speak me, "Henrietta," hopefully not for the last time.