“Oh, I’m fine with either Kelli or Kelly,” I replied.
“You have to be one or the other!” she insisted. “How did your parents say it?”
As I opened my mouth to respond, I froze. To my dismay, I couldn’t recall.
It’s astonishing how much time has passed since my mother’s death—18 years now. The idea that the years without her are nearing the amount of time I had her in my life feels surreal. My father will have been gone for seven years this June—how can that be?
They say that time eases the pain of loss. I guess there’s some truth in that. The intense, raw grief eventually dulls into a more manageable ache. When I dream of my parents now—which happens often—I wake up not in tears but with a sense of warmth, as if they visited me from beyond, offering a gentle “hello.”
Yet there’s a flip side to this: the unsettling, harsh reality that over time, you begin to lose memories you wish you could hold on to. For instance, I can’t clearly recall how they pronounced my name.
I still vividly remember many things about my parents: the way my mom smelled after a shower or the scent of my dad’s leather jacket mingled with the smoke of his evening cigarettes. I can hear my dad’s hearty laugh, his powerful sneeze, and the way he would call our dog. My mother’s voice, filled with emotion as she sang her favorite songs or said “I love you” before hanging up, lingers in my mind. But their pronunciation of my name? That memory feels just out of reach, like a mist that refuses to settle. My mind seems to have prioritized other daily happenings over this precious detail.
In the film Beaches, Barbara Hershey’s character, Hilary, grapples with terminal illness and frantically searches through a box of photographs, exclaiming, “I can’t remember my mother’s hands!” Eventually, Bette Midler’s character, C.C., finds a photo of Hilary’s mom’s hands, and Hilary visibly relaxes. Even as a teenager, I understood the symbolism: Hilary feared that her daughter would forget her, just as she had begun to forget her own mother, piece by piece.
The fear of forgetting intertwines deeply with the dread of being forgotten.
A friend once shared a rather somber yet poignant quote attributed to the street artist Banksy: you die twice—once when you stop breathing, and again when your name is said for the last time. I’ve pondered whether there’s a third moment: when your parents, who named and nurtured you, are no longer here. Who will remember my first words, my first steps, or my spirited toddler days if they’re gone? Kelli or Kelly—who am I, really? Only my parents could have answered that definitively.
But perhaps not. My older siblings, aunts, uncles, my grandma, and stepmom are still here to help piece together my history. Losing my parents at a young age taught me a tough lesson: while they brought me into the world and named me, what I do with that name is entirely my choice.
So how did I respond to my inquisitive friend? After a moment of thought, I considered how my family and those close to me pronounce my name. I reflected on what I preferred to be called. And I had my answer.
“Kelli,” I stated, with certainty.
I’m fairly sure that’s how my parents said it, too. It would be comforting if the last person to say my name gets it right, but if they don’t? I still carry the scent of my dad’s coat and the echoes of my mom singing. I have friends and family who will always keep my memory alive, even if some details fade over time. They are the ones still saying my name today, even if they don’t always pronounce it correctly.
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Summary
Navigating the complexities of memory and loss, the author reflects on the enduring connection to her parents despite their absence. As time passes, she grapples with the fear of forgetting and being forgotten, finding solace in the memories that remain and the love of those still around her.
Keyphrase: The Fear of Forgetting
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