“Oh, I’m fine with either Lila or Leela,” I replied.
“You have to be one or the other!” she pressed. “How do your parents say it?”
I opened my mouth to respond but stopped short. To my dismay, I couldn’t recall.
It continues to astonish me how long it has been since my mother passed away—nearly 15 years now. It feels surreal that the years without her are beginning to equal those when she was alive. And my father will have been gone for five years come June. It seems impossible.
People often say that time eases the pain of loss, and I somewhat agree. The initial, gut-wrenching sorrow transforms into a more bearable dull ache over time. When I dream of my parents now—a frequent occurrence—I no longer wake up engulfed in fresh grief. Instead, I feel fortunate as though one of them stopped by for a visit from beyond, sending a warm “hello” from the great unknown.
But then there’s the flip side: the unsettling truth that over time, you start to forget things you wish you could hold onto. Like, for instance, how my parents pronounced my name.
I still vividly remember many details about my mom and dad: the comforting scent of my mother after a bath or the way my father’s leather jacket carried the lingering aroma of smoke from his evening Benson & Hedges. I can easily recall my dad’s hearty laugh, his resounding sneeze, and the sound of his voice calling for the dog. My mother’s voice, too, rings in my ears, especially when she sang along to her favorite Harry Chapin tunes or said “I love you” before hanging up the phone.
But the memory of how either of them said my name? That recollection feels just out of reach, like a cloud that won’t take shape. Along with countless other inaccessible memories, my mind seems to have deemed this one less significant than the details of my current life.
In the film Beaches, Barbara Hershey’s character, Hilary, who is battling terminal cancer, frantically sorts through a box of photographs. “I can’t remember my mother’s hands!” she exclaims repeatedly. Finally, Bette Midler’s character, C.C., helps her find a picture of her mother’s hands, and Hilary visibly relaxes. Even as a teenager—I was about that age when I watched this movie obsessively—I understood the symbolism: Hilary feared that her daughter might forget her, just as she had begun to forget her own mother, with each detail slipping away.
The fear of forgetting is intricately linked to the fear of being forgotten.
A friend once shared a rather somber yet poignant quote from the graffiti artist Banksy. Roughly paraphrased, it states that you die twice: first, when your heart stops beating, and second, when your name is spoken for the last time.
I began to wonder if there might be a third moment: when the very people who brought you into existence—who nurtured, named, and watched you grow—are no longer there. After all, who will remember my first words, my first steps, or my childhood antics now that my parents are gone? Lila or Leela—what does it truly matter? Only they could have answered that definitively.
Or perhaps not. My siblings, aunts, uncles, grandma, and stepmom are still here, piecing together the fragments of my identity—even if they don’t capture the whole picture. Losing both parents early taught me a harsh lesson: they brought me into this world and gave me a name, but ultimately, it is up to me what I do with it.
So how did I respond to my inquisitive companion? After a moment of thought, I considered how my older siblings, grandma, and aunts pronounce my name. I reflected on what I prefer to be called. And then I found my answer.
“Lila,” I stated confidently.
I’m fairly certain that was how my parents pronounced it as well. It would be comforting if the last person to utter my name gets it right, but if they don’t? I still carry the scent of my father’s leather jacket and the sound of my mother singing “Taxi.” I have family and friends who will never completely forget me, even if some details fade over time. They are the ones who continue to say my name today—even if they don’t always pronounce it correctly.
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In summary, the complexities of memory and loss play a significant role in our identity, as we grapple with the fear of forgetting our loved ones and being forgotten ourselves. Through reflection, we can find meaning in our names and the memories we cherish.