Name.

I once read somewhere

that my name meant helper,

meant leader.

And that’s exactly how it’s been said

my entire life—

Everyone calling to me,

pulling at the syllables like handles,

requesting my assistance

in some way,

some shape,

some form.

And I thought,

of course.

That’s the sense of it.

That’s my place in the universe.

But when I hear you say it,

it’s different.

When you say my name,

you don’t just change the meaning.

You reinvent it.

You bend it.

You shift the very definition.

You make it your own.

You make it ours.

You create a new language

inside those letters.

You speak it softly,

pulling at some tired thread in my core,

unraveling me

like a well-worn sweater,

until I collapse at your plea.

Your tongue teases the back of your teeth.

My name still a request,

but this time it’s for me.

For me to rest.

For me to slow down.

For me to take care of myself.

The others screech my name like an order.

Laced with expectations.

Laced heavy handed by guilt trips.

Rusty shovels on asphalt.

Steel beams creaking in the wind.

Each syllable commanding me to

find a way

to silence the noise.

But you—

you whisper it

like an embrace.

Longing and warmth slip out between syllables.

Raindrops on hosta leaves,

A wood-burning fireplace,

Velvet kisses,

Flannel sheets.

You don’t say my name

to measure how much I can deliver.

You don’t use it

to weigh how much more I can carry.

You say it as a partner.

You say it as a healer.

You say it as home.

You remind me

that definition is not set in stone.

And maybe—

just maybe—

this is what my name was always waiting for.

Not a call to carry everyone else.

But the way you remind me

I don’t have to.