One day, I plan to have a daughter, and I will name her after you.
Maybe she won’t like her name.
Maybe she’ll try to change it.
Maybe she will go by her middle name.
She may even get teased.
I hope not, but kids aren’t always nice, and your name isn’t that common.
Maybe she’ll ask who you are.
Maybe she won’t.
Maybe she’ll be like you.
Maybe she’ll be like me.
I won’t know until I watch her grow.
Maybe she’ll never ask about her name.
Maybe she will.
If she does, I’ll tell her about a time when I was 23.
If she asks to know more, I’ll show her your picture and tell her about the woman who first loved the little girl inside of me.
I’ll tell her about wearing a winter coat that hit my feet and about taking the 1 train to your office.
I’ll tell her about the days I spent on a green sofa next to a Buddha statue on 86th street in Manhattan and about your smile that was always there to greet me.
I’ll tell her about the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream you prescribed rather than medication when I was crying, and the space you held for me as I processed childhood pain.
I’ll tell her about a beautiful woman who forever touched my heart and who taught me to be a mother.
My daughter will likely never meet you, but each time she asks why she was given her name, I’ll place our hands on our hearts and say because she taught me to love both of us, and I do.