In Hebrew, Samuel is “God Heard.” Or “Name of God.” In English, it’s just a name. Simple, plain. Not boring, though. At least not to me. It’s the name of the crowded antique navy and white kitchen full to the brim with trinkets from God knows where. It’s the name of wood chips stuck in your palms, and leaving them there because you’re not to be slowed by such trivialities. It’s the name of the horses in your backyard jumping the fence— 

It’s the name of missing the horses.

My parents, ever the creatives, narrowed it down to Luke or Sam. My mom pushed for sam; she thought Luke sounded “lame.” I couldn’t tell you why they named me Samuel, as they rarely address me as such. No—  that title is only reserved for when I’ve messed up, perhaps forgetting to cover my tracks before sliding out that basement window. I’ve never felt like a Samuel. Just Sam.

It’s when you stay up all night to listen to an album by someone who doesn’t know you exist. Of playing video games with the same three friends for the entirety of your childhood.

It’s the name of someone who has been drowning, learned to swim, and will probably drown again.

The name isn’t important to me. I don’t mind it… but I don’t take pride in it either. But I’m happy with the memories I have attached to it. My name is the label-maker of my psyche; cataloging and indexing the ebbs and flows of the short time I’ve been on earth. At night, it’s smooth, green vines coax my subconscious from the cave it resides in during the day. The three of us sit in the silence, replaying the good times and the bad. 

I look down, noting that I seem much closer to the ground than I remember. 

I’m back in first grade. I got in trouble that day at school for running in the halls with my friend, Josh. I took the bus home, greeted by Iccabod and Wildfire, their manes running slick through my tiny fingers. The new neighbor kid bikes into my driveway. She looks me up and down, trying to estimate how good at four square I’d be.

“What’s your name?”

“Hi.. I’m Sam.”