A mutual friend to friends made introduction,

an introduction scarcely heard; the sound

of music, laughter, and clinking glasses drowned

all semblance of idle conversation.

 

The old friend thought the new might get along;

he was new in town, and she was shy.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he told her, “why

don't we just step out to the quiet lawn?”

 

They did, and in the peaceful night he told her:

“I’m here from Michigan, my name is Phil.”

Like everybody, Phil was quizzical

when she told him that her name was Dolor.

 

“A nickname for Dolores, I suppose?”

“No, it isn’t.  Dolor is my name”

“I have to ask you how it is you came

to such a singular name?”

                                                   “Nobody knows.

 

It was my mother gave the name to me;

she said it was our special secret, and

when I was old enough to understand

she’d tell me.”  But it wasn’t meant to be.

 

She said, “I still can see her smile, and smell

the fragrance of the sunshine in her hair,

the softness of the flannel shirt she’d wear

tending the garden that she loved so well.”

 

Some nights her mother sang this lullaby:

          ‘Sleep, my little Dolor, precious child,

           the angels sing your name so soft and mild,

           and you will know its secret by and by.’

 

When Dolor was a child, as children do,

the other children mercilessly teased her:

“A Dolor, a dollar, pinch her and she’ll holler!”

Her mother said, “They’re only jealous of you

 

because your name has meaning; theirs are plain

old names like ‘Dave’ and ‘Sally,’ ‘Jane’ and ‘Paul.’

They have such boring names! I bet they all

just wish that they could have your special name.”

 

Phil asked her, “But you never found out. Why?”

“My father got a call one summer night

when I was eight; his face turned ashen white.

     ‘That can’t be so! It can’t!’ I heard him cry.”

 

That night some driver, in a drunken blur,

preoccupied with radio or phone,

crossed the lines as her mother was driving home.

                “The secret of my naming died with her.”

 

“Your father never told you?”

                                                         “When he tried

he broke down every time.  It wasn’t long

until the weight of grief became so strong

he simply had to end it.”

                                                 “Suicide?”

 

“No, at least not in a conscious sense;

there was no self-inflicted violence.

A heart attack, they said.  I found him there.

It all was simply more than he could bear;

Though in the end, it makes no difference.”

 

They talked for hours.  When they said good night

Phil said, “let’s get together sometime soon.”

Above his head she saw the Harvest Moon

and took that as an omen, said, “Alright.”

 

A few years later the couple had a boy

and girl, fraternal twins; she knew

their names would serve them well their whole lives through:

 

                Her son is Isaac, and her daughter, Joy.