The Eleanor Sound

Aunt Carol smiled, stirring her cup,

"Your mother almost named you, yup,

Eleanor." The sound, a slow, deep hum,

a stranger's coat, I felt become

my own, for just a breath. A tilt

of how my life could have been built.

El-ea-nor. The letters form

a different face, weathering a storm

I never knew. My name, then, sharp,

came after. A forgotten harp

strung with different wires, I suppose.

The coffee steamed, and no one knows.

Just me, and this ghost-name, soft and gray,

that vanished with a passing day.