My Name

My name means daisy. In French that is. No one can pronounce it. Most don’t even know the full name. It’s a puzzle that very few seem to solve. I'm lucky when I don’t have to help someone each time they mispronounce it. Weight lifts off my shoulders and feel like I won a prize when no one asks my full name. My "real" name they say. As if what I call myself is fake or a mask. I hide my name not because it isn't beautiful. But because I can’t hear people remind me how hard my own name is to pronounce or how it’s confusing and doesn’t flow through their lips like "Hannah" or "Hailey". If it was on a page in a book being read in class it would be pronounced wrong. Wrong. Wrong again. People don’t see the delicacy of the sound like it could snap if held just the wrong way. It’s an antique easy to break but beautiful to the eye. It sways in the wind and reaches up to light and heat. It has the fresh smell of a bouquet of flowers given to the lead in the play or the dancer on stage. It’s beautiful. It needs to be appreciated. Admired. It’s loved. It's Marguerite.






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