scribblechic

As a child I always felt my name a misnomer of self. My first and middle names were my grandmother’s and mother’s middle names respectively; an inheritance that wore like an ill-fitting hand-me-down.

It wasn’t until I became accustomed to the more formal acknowledgment of my married name and the well-favored endearment of Mom, that the informal commonness of my first name evolved into a small indulgence. I have grown to appreciate the unruffled simplicity of my name more mindful of the relationships and experiences that are forever spelled out in its letters.

Now, here, there is a rustling of desire to adhere my name more possessively to my written identity; too intimate in nature to be casually referenced by an alternate expression. What was once a simple exercise in letting go has become a more meaningful practice of holding on, scribbling my name more intentionally into the text of my story.