What's in Her Name

Buford was the name you hated, Eugenia was the name no one knew

Genie is what you went by, but Pinmunner is what I called you

Whatever anyone called you, we unanimously were aware

Of the legacy you'd one day leave for all of us to share

Your name holds so much in it, it's weight will stay with me

Your name has spread itself around my heart like branches of a tree

Even as I sit here typing, I cannot give your name it's full honor

Yet, I must try my best so all around me feel in it your ferver

Red hair, liptstick, creepy clown doll, and glass after glass of Sunny Delight

Matching rocking chairs, strict attention to manners I always wanted to fight

Odd clothing prints and patterns that always felt too brash and bold

Yet, they seemed to be designed for you, never feeling you were too old

VBS at the church, that coy pond, and the hydrangas on the side of the house

Bagdaddy's ever loving kindness, in my mind, always the picturesque spouse

The love that was shared by mundane, gentle acts of service

The way every trinket and piece of furniture seemed to me too perfect

The Christmases spent in that Mississippi home, the colorful couch where we sat

The jokes my dad made constantly that either didn't land or gave you a little laugh

The moments of you dancing without shame to whatever music played in the store

It always made me smile and gave me confidence to embrace myself more

The way I was never like you, always felt awkward and shy around you

You told me I always preferred Bagdaddy, unapologetically avoiding you

I never knew how to talk to the grandmother who insisted on constantly cleaning my nails

I must admit that I found myself often intimidated by you, a little uncomfortable as well

But the trinkets, the carpet, the outdated 1970's home you moved to when he died

It provided a chance for me to see you up close, to see the way you shined

That guest room with the quaint feel and lovely twin-sized bed where I slept

While you were in the other room with the vanity, where much of your time was spent

On nights I stayed with you, I'd up to you watching Good Morning America 

You never cooked, never knew how, yet the instant oatmeal made me feel loved

The dozens of photos that filled the living room and the items you collected

How I always wanted to touch and observe them; they made me feel connected

The time we drove in the rain for over an hour to that church in Mississippi

You brought it up so many times; but I never told you how much it meant to me

I never saw you as someone I related to or could even be myself around

Yet, a greater woman and godlier soul I don't I've ever found

The Tuesday visits, conversations where I only listened as you shared

Of childhood hardships and memories, of the way the Lord cared

Cared and protected you all these years, in wanting and in contentment

Nowhere did I ever see or hear feelings of anger or resentment

The three things you spoke of with sheer love and admiration

Were Bagdaddy, books, and your own personal salvation

If I could have counted how many times you spoke of God; actually I can't

Even if I started counting in the last year of your life, I wouldn't make a dent

Your unwavering trust, your constant witnessing to everyone, even at the library

Where we went every Tuesday to check out books; but you always talked to the ladies

You shared your faith, your humor, your love for courtroom dramas

At last I see three things, as it turns out, that we have in common

I too have a man, like Bagdaddy, with a tender heart expressed in mundane, loving acts

I have that salvation you always spoke of, the passion for the library book stacks

I always thought I was nothing like you; I only had memories raging through my mind

Now I know there are subtle similarities no one has seen, similarities I now find

I only hope to love the Lord the way you have for so much of the life you lived

I hope to live to