“I don’t mind—Call me Clo or Chloe, either one works,” I replied.
“You have to have a preference!” she pressed. “How did your parents say it?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then it hit me—I couldn’t remember.
It’s astonishing how long it has been since my mother passed away—over 15 years now. The thought that the years without her are beginning to match the years I had her in my life is hard to digest. My father has also been gone for five years now; it feels unreal.
People often say that time helps ease the pain of loss, and to some extent, I agree. The intense sorrow of initial grief gradually transforms into a more muted ache that is easier to cope with long term. When I dream about my parents now—which still happens quite often—I no longer awaken in tears. Instead, there’s a comforting warmth, as if one of them visited me in my sleep, a gentle “hello” from beyond.
Yet, there is an uncomfortable truth that emerges over time: you begin to forget the very things you wish to hold onto. For instance, I can’t recall how my parents pronounced my name.
I still vividly remember many aspects of my mom and dad: the scent of my mother after her bath, the smell of my father’s leather jacket mingled with lingering tobacco. I can hear my dad’s hearty laugh, the powerful sneeze that filled the room, and the way he called our family dog. My mother’s voice resonates in my mind, especially when she sang her favorite songs or expressed her love before ending a phone call.
But when it comes to how they said my name? That memory is elusive, like a cloud that refuses to take form. My mind seems to prioritize other details from my daily life over this cherished memory.
In the film Beaches, a scene resonates deeply where Barbara Hershey’s character, Hilary, who is battling terminal illness, frantically searches through a box of photographs. “I can’t remember my mother’s hands!” she cries out, desperate. Eventually, Bette Midler’s character, C.C., finds a photo that captures Hilary’s mother’s hands, and Hilary visibly relaxes. Even as a teenager—when I watched this movie on repeat—I grasped the symbolism: Hilary feared her daughter would forget her, just as she was losing memories of her own mother, one detail at a time.
The fear of forgetting intertwines with the fear of being forgotten. A friend recently shared a poignant quote from the English graffiti artist Banksy, which suggests that we die twice: first, when we stop breathing, and again when our name is spoken for the last time.
I pondered if there might be a third death: when the two people who brought you into existence—who named and nurtured you—are no longer alive. After all, who will remember my first words, my initial steps, or my youthful temperament now that my parents have passed? Clo or Chloe. Which one is it? Only my parents could definitively answer that—or could have, in their time.
However, I do have my older siblings, aunts, uncles, and friends who can help piece together my identity. Though losing my parents early was harsh, it taught me a vital lesson: while they named me, what I do with that name is ultimately my responsibility.
So, how did I respond to the inquisitive stranger? After a brief moment of thought, I reflected on how my family and loved ones pronounce my name. I considered my own preference and replied, “Clo,” with certainty.
I’m fairly confident that’s how my parents said it, too. While it would be nice if the last person to utter my name got it right, even if they don’t, I still have the memory of my father’s coat’s scent and my mother’s voice singing “Taxi.” My family and friends keep my name alive today, even if some details fade over time.
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In summary, the passage of time brings both comfort and the painful reality of forgetting cherished memories. While the fear of being forgotten is profound, our connections with family and friends help keep our identities alive.