Call Me Brother

“What’s your name?” someone asked, and I thought about it. Not my real name. Not the name I was given at birth. It’s been said that life is too important to take seriously. (Sounds like Wilde. I’ll look it up later.)

I thought Buddy. But then remembered to think twice about the handles by which you agree to be grabbed, and couldn’t imagine that being forever beckoned with “Buddy!” would be best for me.

Pal, Pally, Joe, Guy. Nah. Too much fish wrapper, not enough origin story, let alone clear state of being.

The question, after all, is not only meant to provide a nameplate, because we know before we know who we are, we have to ask why and what we are, and why we’re here, and we realize we first need to decide where we are, and try to accept that our answers are not always going to be as easily acceptable to others as we might expect.

So “Call me, Brother,” I answered, since all we know for sure is we are in ‘it’ together, and whatever name we give, call or take for it, it’s mutually relatable. And embracing even this much; the fact that we have at least this much in common is, in my opinion, a great place from which to start a relationship.