Riley. It was the first word lent to my soul. I always found it ironic that I could’t choose my name, when I get to choose everything else about who I become. But that’s the cool thing about words–they become what we make of them.
To my parents, Riley was nothing but a name. The first word on a blank page, waiting for me to write it’s story.
We piece words together like artists do with colors. Each hue can stand alone, but an artist makes their masterpiece by combining different tones. Uniquely.
Riley’s a name that belongs to many. But not every Riley makes a mean homemade pizza, makes friends wherever she goes (or at least tries to), and grounds herself by creating.
And not every Riley’s secretly scared of the dark, scared of stingrays, and scared for what happens next.
And I know for a fact not every Riley was Sandy in her school’s first-grade rendition of “Grease.” (I’ll take any chance I can to bring it up).
I’ve given power to my word–my name–from all the words I’ve spoken. And all the words I’ve heard. All the words I’ve bartered. I’m a mosaic of all the words–good words and bad words, sharp words and dull words–that I’ve came across. And so are the stories I write.