Unheard Parts of the Story

In English it is only a name. It Hebrew it means “descend” or “flow down.” To me it means impatience. It means concern. It means worried. It means determination. It is the number twenty-one. A pale color.

It is the feel of water squishing in your shoes from being outside on a rainy day. It is the excitement of Christmas Eve, but never the surprise of Christmas morning.

            It was the name of a girl in a movie before it became mine. Foolish and passionate, unmanageable and wild. A New York waitress. The wife of a bartender and daughter of a rich father.

            My name is the sound of a field hockey stick hitting the ball, the cry of my opponent, the cheer of my team. It is an out-of-tune flute song. Music played so it shakes the speakers. Shopping bags full, money spent.

It is like the salty smell of the ocean and the feel of sand between your toes. It is the way the ocean looks at night from the balcony, and the soothing sound of waves crashing. It is a taxi in London and breakfast from bakeries in Paris. It is silver, not gold. Sometimes it is a worthless and broken, but always it is given hope, held onto just incase.

            It fits like a pair of faded and raggedy, but favorite jeans. It is a sugary sweet drink with a salty bite. It is the feel of hot tea against your lips. My name is the shuffling of feet in the early morning and awakening noise late at night. It is a book with many pages left unturned, unheard parts of the story. It is memories of different places, people now grown older and changed. It is laughing with friends and having a good time. Making no sense and being understood. My name could mean anything literally, and its meaning to me would not change.