Language

You think of your brother and his many nicknames with the family. You think of Cake and Boo and Cakey. You try to think of your own pet names with the family but only remember abbreviations, shortenings. You remember your father calling you son like he did your brother. You remember your mother calling you sweetie like she did with your brothers and sisters. You feel a lack, a hole where your own language should sound, your own word. You think of your name. You think of the spelling and the missing ‘e’ and the pride you take in the simplicity. You remember meeting girls in fourth grade with the same name, with the same spelling, and asking your mother about it. You remember her telling you your spelling was most likely the more feminine way of spelling your name but she liked that spelling better. You ask about your family, searching for namesakes or reasons for your name, your spelling, your word. Your mother tells you the name begins with you. You remember feeling hollow then, empty of history. You ask where your name came from, wondering where your word, your place holder gifted from your parents, originated. You mother tells you she simply always liked the name. You remember the dissatisfaction with her answer. You remember frowns and the bitter, tinny taste of fought-back tears. You remember wanting something solid, you remember wanting a boy’s spelling of your word. You research your name now, curious of the etymology. You find your name has history, if not in your family. You find your name dates back centuries. You find your solid ground in your word. You find your name comes from the word quarry. You smile in your new fact, in your name which comes from stone, from inside the earth, from mining, from labor. You suddenly slow your smile curious why the fresh masculinity of your name brings such joy. You think of rocks and pits and wonder how these words relate to you past your name and their shared history. You realize you are not that solid. You think of the girls in the fourth grade with the same name and wonder if they know the same story for the word. You realize it is not a shared word. You realize the name only becomes as solid as you are solid. You realize suggesting the name to friends with coming children is not suggesting earth, or strength, but suggesting you, your story, the meaning you have attached to yourself. You stop researching your name. You start writing it.