Tracy (the emptiness of names)

Right after the smack on the bottom comes the name. I remember
crying as they stuck mine on me: T-R-A-C-Y,
the letters spilling from mama’s lips like a can of alphabet
soup into sterile air. Tracy.

If you swish the letters around in your mouth, just
say the name as it sounds,
Tracy is one who seems sloppily jotted down: a girl traced
into existence through the projects of lazy students, but

a book of names will tell you Tracy means harvest,
the short form of Theresa,
a verb for the Greeks. Can you hear it? “We
must go Tracy the fields today, in search of beans,”
or something along those lines. And this raises

the question: what use are baby name
books in a world where star-crossed skeptics declared
the emptiness of names? “A rose is still a rose,”
they said. “Even if you call it a daisy.”

I learned the good in names, though, at age thirteen -
lost out in the woods at dinnertime
and Tracy was the sound of mama’s voice running through the trees,
grabbing my hand and leading me home
before dinner got cold.