We were young and dumb. If you are old and bitter and keeping track, I have said two redundant things already. I’ll try to stop.

It’s just not easy finding the right words. It’s almost as if each idea and feeling is just a puzzle piece that I pull out of the box in my gut and hold up to my tongue. Rubbing the edges along my taste buds, hoping to find the word that ‘fits’. You’d think after 15 years I’d have gotten it figured out by now, but you’d be wrong. I only have the border finished, and it is this:

We loved each other and that was reason enough to keep the baby. It didn’t matter that we were broke, and didn’t know the intricacies of air conditioning unit maintenance that older, wiser, homeowners all seem to know.

For some reason, and coupled with a hundred others, I never told her that I already named the baby. Her name was to be Elinore, and she’d serve tea to invisible friends while her feet dangled from her seat above the ground. I apologize for the long build up to this point (I needed it), but our baby was never meant to be. My girlfriend had a miscarriage.

So much happened, so much time passed, but still I kept her name a secret. My girlfriend has been my ex for years, lives in Seattle, and looks happy on Facebook. A couple weeks ago I got a tattoo. A tiny little name on my rib cage. I told the guy doing the ink that it was my girlfriends name. It feels almost shameful, but that’s not the right word. I’ll keep trying to find the proper one.