According to the ancient artists Tyler means tile maker or one who makes tiles. It means bright and happy. It sounds like the music I hear when I see my grandfather remembering good times. It’s the color of old sweaters in the fifties, the bright blues and yellows. It’s the dog happy to see its owner. The eyes of a baby the first time they see a toy. Or is it the eyes of a six-year-old waking up on Christmas day to see a pile of presents taller than himself and half the size of the tree.

Tile makers did not only cut stones into squares. It is the mosaic on the ceiling in a church. It is the rare work of art that is on the side of the café. It is the mural telling its story as it fades into history itself. Fading over time, but always being remembered in the hearts of men. It is what is lain down in the sands of time for all to see and all to hear, to experience its beauty.

People say my name like it is drawn out and long not happily just plain Tyler. It doesn’t sound special, happy or sad, just plain. Like it is the common daisy just sitting there waving in the sun. Or they say it with boredom, so the real meanings and emotions try to grow on the ledge of ravine waving in the wind struggling to hold on. Being challenged by all seasons, men, beasts, but always there.  It is the deep thought that occurs when a piece of artwork is being studied.

I am not Ty or any other nickname. It is just Tyler, the struggling name trying to live up to its reputation growing among the slabs of heartless concrete.