Dear Byrd,
What’s your name now, I wonder. Not Blake, I hope, or Blair. Or Smitty. Please, not Smitty.
I can guess what you’re thinking: what mother would name her child Byrd?
But I knew the name wouldn’t follow you. Which is partly why I chose it—I wanted a name no one else would ever call you. One thing about you that would be only mine.
What I first loved about your father was his name. It was lyrical, something you might hear in a song or read in a book.
Not that anyone would ever write a book about him. Or that he would ever read it.
