The Purple House Name

My name does not fit me. My name is not the right shape or style. My name means poet. I am not a poet.
My name is a poison ivy rash, ugly and annoying. It is the customs of a foreigner. My name is a puzzle. It is smelly shoes. My name is an alarm going off in the morning. My name is the horrible green Brussels sprouts my mom makes me eat.

            My name is from my mom’s maiden name, Devenish. It is a shorter version. Despite my dislike for my name, I have a strong name. I have a strong Irish name. My name is a rock.  My family and I have the boldness of a glistening rainbow. My name does represent my personality in ways, because I am very much like my mom’s family. We are all raging rivers of white, moving fast and always flowing. We are the crickets in the dark night that never stop chirping until the golden sun touches the sky.  My cousins think it’s cool. They all want my name.

            My name is as special as Christmas day. No one ever has the same name as me. My name is a purple house. It is a pink car. My name is as bold as a brightly colored holiday sweater. My name is the fall, leaving the trees bare-naked, but dressing the ground with golden jewels.

            People look at my name strangely, as if it were a dog with two heads. It is not peculiar. It is just un-common. My name is unique. In some ways that’s good. People never spell or pronounce my name right. That is the itch.

            I sometimes wish that I could have a simple, common, ordinary name. I want a name that is a brick house. I could be Ann or Sara. Something not so itchy or smelly. But I like my name. I like that it is a purple house name, because every once in a while you see a purple house name, and they are special. I might not like the extra stuff that comes along with my name, but I’m glad that’s my name, because I am an individual and so is my name.