Lily is the kind of name that is made up of four very simple letters. The sort of letters that roll of the lips with one breathe. Sometimes it is wild. Like a hushed field, that sneaks up behind me. Or sometimes a pack of howling cries from all directions of a classroom, or the pool.
It is also a name that can be long, and balanced. Calls almost prayer like to summon a single crow in the distant branches.
Other times I find it to be a weary red flag that stands with a platform of sky, surrendering its last life to the fallen. When my father's face becomes a toasted lake, and my mothers a quaking brow. Then my ducks are forced back into a long simple line, and only then is the flag plucked from my name.
Lily was forced on a starting line. One week it was Elizabeth. The next it would be Alison. Then, Lily, like a circle of three, never finding a steady leg to rest. Upon the lavender hug of white pillow, a winner chosen in a steady transition from face to opinion.
Grace means the light flutter of beautiful dance. It is mentioned before queens, and given to maidens of fair complexion. For me, it was shoved between my beginning, and ending of a name. The ugly stepsisters trying to shove a glass slipper on large feet. Though it doesn’t fit, I still secretly sing the melody of grace.
Lastly there is an Irish note from the great grand, to the great, to my parents, to me. The most cherished section of the pie that I keep for moments at school, or an audience. Like the bolded part of a title that makes it worth the read. Lily is a rising red, but my last name is a sinking purple.