What It Means to Carry Her Name

In the diner’s glow, where laughter thickens the air,

my mother’s voice dripped nostalgia, and I caught

her secret—a crumpled napkin, soft in her hands,

bearing a name, handwritten in blue ink—

a simple thread, unspooled from our family, a legacy

woven in fries and sunlight streaming through blinds.

She spoke of my grandmother, a heart-shaped smile,

tucked inside stories like sugar packets; I wondered

what weight I carried, a middle name etched in whispers,

a bridge unspoken, yet pulsing between us,

each syllable wrapping around me, a fragile thread,

knowing her footsteps linger in mine, even now,

even in the quiet stir of a remembered evening.