The Name That Lives in Me

Grief, memory, and a name that still feels like home

Initial reflection

This is the second poem in a series that I wrote almost compulsively during the silent period between knowing and losing. I had just been told that my grandfather might not survive the next few hours, and my body reacted before my mind could register the news. I started writing.

This poem stems from my regret of not telling him directly how much he meant to me and that, despite any mistakes, he was the best grandfather in the world.

This is my way of beginning to mourn his loss. Through language, I try to hold on.

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Today’s Poem

Did you know?
Your name stopped being just yours a long time ago.

It was abducted by three small letters¹,
like a childhood secret,
like an old candy hidden in a pocket.

Grandpa.

Two vowels and a V for value —
for worth, for virtue,
everything you taught without ever raising your voice.

Saying “Grandpa Roque” brings an automatic smile,
a sweet, proud reflex,
like tasting a name that feels like home.

Home where there were old bowls
with strange porridge,
wooden clocks with pictures of me,
an iron-and-wood ox cart,
and a plow.
What a plow!

A windmill that looked like a lighthouse,
an endless collection of coffee cups
(and me, always late to like coffee).

Fishing trophies.
Pigeon trophies.
Trophies for everything.

Everything except the one
I never got around to giving:
World’s Best Grandpa.

Songs about Mary,
whispered prayers in the yard,
fishing trips with few fish,
but full of stories.

You had patience.
You told wild tales.
You explained everything so gently —
and to this day,
I still don’t know the difference
between a cocoon and a caterpillar.

A house for the chickens.
A house for the pigeons.
A home.

You.

You, who left your name inside me
like someone offering a sweet —
without ceremony,
just with love.

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Closing thoughts

Some names become places.
Some people become poems.

My grandpa became both.

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A few months ago, I learned that my grandfather wanted my parents to add his last name to mine when they registered me. I already have two first names and two last names, so adding another one would make my name too long. It might also be unfair to my other grandparents. So, I don't have "Roque" in my name.

But I live in a small town where everyone knows me as Roque's granddaughter. In fact, that's often how I introduce myself. I'm proud of that fact.

The name may not appear on my birth certificate or my ID card, but it is a part of who I am and what I write, and that's what matters to me.

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If you’ve ever loved someone so deeply that the silence they leave becomes louder than anything else, I hope this poem finds you.

You can share your own memories, reflections, or dedications in the comments. I’d love to read them.

1. I say "three small letters" because I always write in my native language, and in Portuguese we say "avô". This is the word I am describing.