Warmed Fingers; Cold Coffee
The old man clutched his coffee cup in a way not dissimilar to the
way one would hold a newborn baby. A gentle caress, with his littlest
finger nestled just so in the crook of the handle. The man must have
been feeling the chill of the cloudy room. Though realistically the cup
could not be providing much warmth. Not more warmth than that of a
newborn baby. For despite the aversion to steaming coffee, there exists
an explosive energy within a newborn baby known only to one who holds
her. Her name is Sylvia. Last names are not important, for they say very
little about the person who bears them.
A first name, on the other hand, is of utmost importance. The name becomes the person, the person grows the mold of their name. All else is outgrowed as the baby becomes a toddler, child, adult. A name fits all, always. And what of those who change their name? Impossible. For the name still only belongs to them. Imagine someone saying your name right now - a warming sensation.
Not unlike a steaming coffee cup cosily arranged, with fingers draping on this side, the inside of the palm squeezed tight against the porcelain on the other side. Sylvia. The letters were meant to be arranged in such a way for this person. Explaining all in just the simple enunciation of a rolling tongue, a tongue that touches all parts of the mouth with just the utteration of a single name. How mysteriously commonplace, yet unique in it's very fashion of being the name of this one person.
And what if the name was Sara, not Sylvia. Sara - for everyone is named Sara. But who is hearing the name, Sara, as the old man calls? Only the Sara to whom the call is directed. A newborn baby knows nothing, yet knows the name to look up to, to burble and smile, to flash her eyes - so really - just how much does a newborn baby know? Nearly as much as the old man, if not more.
A newborn baby, with wrinkles and crinkles in seemingly all the wrong places looks eerily similar to the old man and his coffee cup. His coffee a lighter brown color, for he stirred in the warm milk. Now everything is known, save the name of the old man.
His name is Morton of course.
For no other name would fit the fingers; the warmed fingers that now rest peacefully on the table beside the cooled coffee.
A first name, on the other hand, is of utmost importance. The name becomes the person, the person grows the mold of their name. All else is outgrowed as the baby becomes a toddler, child, adult. A name fits all, always. And what of those who change their name? Impossible. For the name still only belongs to them. Imagine someone saying your name right now - a warming sensation.
Not unlike a steaming coffee cup cosily arranged, with fingers draping on this side, the inside of the palm squeezed tight against the porcelain on the other side. Sylvia. The letters were meant to be arranged in such a way for this person. Explaining all in just the simple enunciation of a rolling tongue, a tongue that touches all parts of the mouth with just the utteration of a single name. How mysteriously commonplace, yet unique in it's very fashion of being the name of this one person.
And what if the name was Sara, not Sylvia. Sara - for everyone is named Sara. But who is hearing the name, Sara, as the old man calls? Only the Sara to whom the call is directed. A newborn baby knows nothing, yet knows the name to look up to, to burble and smile, to flash her eyes - so really - just how much does a newborn baby know? Nearly as much as the old man, if not more.
A newborn baby, with wrinkles and crinkles in seemingly all the wrong places looks eerily similar to the old man and his coffee cup. His coffee a lighter brown color, for he stirred in the warm milk. Now everything is known, save the name of the old man.
His name is Morton of course.
For no other name would fit the fingers; the warmed fingers that now rest peacefully on the table beside the cooled coffee.
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| "The Name Becomes the Person" |
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