Names do not make a person. It is only when the right person breathes it into existence that it takes on meaning. My name means nothing on my lips it means nothing in my own words. My name does not make me, me. It is a fabrication of letters and vowels. A classification, names are serial numbers printed on tongues. The only backstory they hold are the people that shape their mouths around the word. The letters were imprinted upon my mother’s mind and slipped out of her mouth into existence. It was her grandmother’s name and dead history is clenched between their cold teeth. She named me after her, and the flowers she holds dear. Yet flowers are not named Margaret, and you can still catch their scent when you speak my name. My mysterious orphaned mother, her name holds no memories from me. She spoke my name with love and gave it life and meaning. I have yet to hear another say Margaret that dearly. My father speaks it jokingly; my stepmother won’t speak it at all. Though I can’t remember the way my mother said it, I imagine it was not spoken with humor or silence. And though I can’t remember her voice the little miracles around me speak my name for her. The love she left behind is reminiscent in my name. I love you Margaret, I love you pearl, I love you little flower, I love you my beautiful daughter. Perhaps it is symbolical how I am now called Maggie. The past of this name does not hold that beauty or hidden spirit. It is shortened into quietness and a quick smile. Many know this name as me, but for its bearer it holds no meaning. Maggie is not said with passion but neither more is Margaret. If one day I find someone who speaks my name with honeyed mouth and flowers, I will know it is my mother’s voice that speaks to me again.