Emily: Sparky

We have been wanting to adopt a puppy...and Saturday went to the Sonoma Human Society and saw Sparky. He has since been adopted, which makes me both happy and sad for obvious reasons.

As much as we liked Sparky, we did not like his name and spent the afternoon hike coming up with possible alternatives. I have always had a fascination with names because they are language as beauty and not function. My possible future offspring are sure to get beat up in the playground as a result of my love of multisyllabic exotic names.

To follow is a poem from The Sun, the magazine that is most important to me (more so than even Elle Decoration or Vogue Living!) in the world.

Names
Danusha Lameris

What happens to the ones that fall out of favor:
the Dorises and Archibalds,
the Theodores and Eunices?
They all had their day,
once roamed the earth in multitudes
alongside Gerties and Wyatts,
as though there would always be
at least one in every classroom.
Names written in neat block print,
scratched into tree bark side by side,
engraved on heart-shaped lockets,
or filling the morning paper
with weddings and engagements.
How could they have known
it was their last hurrah?
That once by one the Constances
and Clydes would disappear,
replaced by Jennifers, Jacobs,
Ashleys, and Aidens?
That few would ever dance again,
corsage pinned neatly to their breasts,
or hear their names on the radio
read by the DJ in whispered dedication,
or uttered in darkness
by a breathless voice,
or even shouted out in anger -
"Seymour! Seymour!" -
as they grabbed the keys and stormed out the door?
Each names would fade quietly from daily life
as though it had never existed,
except for the letters etched into gray stone,
warmed by the sun in the day,
at night lit by a crescent moon.