if my middle name was Trijntje

the bony letters would smush together

like a hug from my Nana and Opa

Trijntje is the softness of

fabric from Nana’s sewing room

cradled in my arms

Trijntje is the cannonball boom of

Opa’s laughter

striking my heart

Trijntje would unlock a door

i’ve never opened

would connect me to aunts

i barely know

would live in that cabin in the mountains

in the woodpile and barn and bedroom nook

in the peaks and valleys of the land

arms open to welcome me home

My middle name is not Trijntje

it’s Lynn

but i’m beginning to unearth

it’s quiet beauty

like an amethyst unveiled

like a soft-smelling flower

unfurling in my palm

Lynn means lake 

like the one in the mountains

where i used to swim

Lynn

is a soft whisper

over glassy water

Lynn

is a quiet exhale

before the starting gun

Lynn

is the soft strum of a church guitar

and the warmth of a blanket in rumbling storms

Trijntje is a bouncing strain

a verse to a song

my lineage has sung

But Lynn is a soft hum

the beginnings of a piece

that I will compose

Lynn is not Dutch but

Lynn is a beating heart

and my heart does not beat alone