I am going to tell you all a story. Well, it’s not really a story. It’s mostly just something I think is kind of cool that I don’t tell much.
My name is Marryl, which is strange. It’s strange because I do not personally know any other Marryls, nor does anyone who knows me, I don’t think. (I said personally. Academy Awards winners are excluded.) Sometimes I will literally stop and think about my name, sounding it out or shaping it with my mouth because it’s just so odd. Wow, I sound narcissistic. I promise I don’t do this that often.
What is even more odd is the spelling, which brings me to my story.
My grandma on my mom’s side was named Marion. My nana on my dad’s side was named Beryl. My parents took the “Mar” from Marion and the “ryl” from Beryl, smushed them together, and got my name.
(I was born to an art teacher and a graphic designer. Quelle surprise.)
So there you have it, in case you were ever wondering how all those letters ended up in that order on my birth certificate.
Now, I was going to say something somewhat sad about my name not making me feel any closer to my grandmothers or like they are a part of me now that they’re gone as it probably should. I was going to say that every time I tell this story I feel happy for a moment because I get to breathe live into my grandmothers, but then that all goes away when I am reminded that with each passing year my name slowly becomes one of the only remaining fragments of each of them. I was going to say that I am really horrible at accepting and moving on from death even five and thirteen years after the fact and that I still miss both of them with such crippling sadness like you can’t even imagine.
But this blog is still in its early, happy, honeymoon stage, so I won’t say any of that.
Though let me get one thing straight:
My name is NOT Marilyn.
Call me that and my grandmothers will surface from their graves and haunt you for all eternity.