I have a friend who sprinkles the name of the person she is speaking to into the dialogue. It sounds seamless, and yet the novelty of it still swells my heart rate a notch. It is silly, I suppose, to feel special. Of course she knows my name, yet to hear her natter it is another imprint of our friendship. 

 

My children call me Mom. Like a chameleon the word takes on the color of the message, whether it is a request, or a reminder, a complaint or a caress. I love to hear John voice my name when we are together. Unfortunately, though, somewhere along the way I began to associate my name spoken at a higher decibel with being in trouble. He will yell across the house.

 

"Lori!!!"

 

"What did I do?" the response comes faster than my frontal lobe can edit it, even though John has told me that he does not want me to go straight to Reprimand. 

 

But when we are side by side, and he speaks that single word, I feel chosen.

 

I have tried to use the knowledge to help him feel hand picked too, rather than hen pecked. 

 

"John, how did you sleep?"

 

"How did the meeting go, John?" 

 

A name is brazen enough to try to wrap its four or eight letters around a human spirit like a house tries to encompass a family, or a painting attempts to capture a sun washed landscape.

 

John. 

 

John.

 

John...