“What is my name?”
Hand poised above the form, she struggled to remember.
What name do they want? Government-approved and official? The drowsy whispers in my infant ear? The nickname I wrote so proudly at the top of my third-grade papers in wobbly cursive? The one I took on when, drunk with love, I made promises I didn’t know I couldn’t keep? Mama? Me?
With a sigh, she slowly put down the pen, the metal-ball chain clicking softly on the counter, and walked outside..
Folding the paper into an airplane, she launched it towards the sun, letting the wind and the birds sing to her of her true name.