Wilma and Hermie

First pets. God named the sun, the pine tree, and Adam. Adam named the cheetah, the aardvark, and Eve. Hannah, Ali, and Jojo named Wilma and Hermie. Naming. The sacred, generous breath which carves out a place, a home, an identity for another. A lush garden, with paths for strolling. Togetherness. Contrary to much contemporary ontology, the bearers of truth are not events, or propositions, or states of affair, but namings.

Naming in action. Like a most affectionate mother, Ali swings Hermie and Wilma. Jojo wipes the fugitive who got lost in a dusty corner of the house. Upon a second hideaway, Hannah’s question reverberates sorrowfully: “Wilma, where are you?”

I’ve been resistant to the gift and demand of naming. Of loving. I retreat into my shell. I emerge, but only to lash out. Shelling, lashing. Vacillating. Passive, aggressive. Call me a mule. Call me a hermit crab. Call me Wilma or Hermie.

Thick husk, slimy tentacles, veteran pinchers. Am I constitutionally capable of naming? Suspend that thought to be embraced by Hannah. Her hands unite behind my neck. The same tender hands that have been clutched by Wilma, that later found her hidden under the sofa and caressed her shell, the same hands electrify my spine. I wrap my arms around her. For a moment it’s so silent, that I hear her breath. And I remember my name.