THE NAMING OF NICOLE SODERMAN
“Oh mom. I wish you could be here,” you say to a painting of you and your mother. You were only five. She was only twenty-five. Too soon after, she left the world forever. You hold your head high, however, and mouth, I got this, before heading back to your room.
Today’s the day. The day you’ve been waiting for. Your Naming Ceremony.
While you sit on your bed, holding the gloves your mother gave you for this very occasion, you hear the gentle noise of your family out in the living room. They’re all there. And that comforts you. Some. Yet your stomach twists into a knot--what will my Naming be? Being the oldest in a large family, you have nothing to go on.
Except for your mom and dad. Mom’s name meant gentle. Dad’s meant healer. No one’s ever pressured you for a good Naming; however, you can’t help but desire one.
Around your room, you see all sorts of things. You look for a distraction. And find one. There’s a handwritten note from your doctor to your parents. For some reason, it ended up in your room. You can’t help but smile, knowing what it says. “Your daughter’s allergic to White Willow Bark,” wrote the doctor. Instantly, you’re transported to nights spent in your parents’ bed—vivid hallucinations occurring. Once the doctor discovered why they happened, the hallucinations vanished. So did nights with mom and dad. You’re glad to sleep soundly now; however—and your heart tweaks suddenly—you’d take those hallucinations with mom in the bed over anything.
A knock on the door pulls you out of your memories.
“Nicole, ready?” your brother asks.
“Yes." You pull on your green gloves and head out to the living room.
Smiles greet you. You can feel their warmth in their eyes. All wishing she were here too.
But this is your moment. So you square your shoulders and approach the Reader.
Her eyes survey you like a statue. Up and down; circling you where you stand. Finally, minutes later, she pulls from her pouch a quill and slip of parchment. For a few breathless seconds, she lets the quill tip swim across the paper, ink forming letters you can’t yet see. But know. Know it’s producing a word that will define your everything.
Finally, she holds out the parchment. No one yet, not even the Reader knows what your Naming has revealed. Until you grasp the paper in your hands. You breathe deep; close your eyes for a split second.
Then speak.
“Nicole Soderman--victorious.”
Today’s the day. The day you’ve been waiting for. Your Naming Ceremony.
While you sit on your bed, holding the gloves your mother gave you for this very occasion, you hear the gentle noise of your family out in the living room. They’re all there. And that comforts you. Some. Yet your stomach twists into a knot--what will my Naming be? Being the oldest in a large family, you have nothing to go on.
Except for your mom and dad. Mom’s name meant gentle. Dad’s meant healer. No one’s ever pressured you for a good Naming; however, you can’t help but desire one.
Around your room, you see all sorts of things. You look for a distraction. And find one. There’s a handwritten note from your doctor to your parents. For some reason, it ended up in your room. You can’t help but smile, knowing what it says. “Your daughter’s allergic to White Willow Bark,” wrote the doctor. Instantly, you’re transported to nights spent in your parents’ bed—vivid hallucinations occurring. Once the doctor discovered why they happened, the hallucinations vanished. So did nights with mom and dad. You’re glad to sleep soundly now; however—and your heart tweaks suddenly—you’d take those hallucinations with mom in the bed over anything.
A knock on the door pulls you out of your memories.
“Nicole, ready?” your brother asks.
“Yes." You pull on your green gloves and head out to the living room.
Smiles greet you. You can feel their warmth in their eyes. All wishing she were here too.
But this is your moment. So you square your shoulders and approach the Reader.
Her eyes survey you like a statue. Up and down; circling you where you stand. Finally, minutes later, she pulls from her pouch a quill and slip of parchment. For a few breathless seconds, she lets the quill tip swim across the paper, ink forming letters you can’t yet see. But know. Know it’s producing a word that will define your everything.
Finally, she holds out the parchment. No one yet, not even the Reader knows what your Naming has revealed. Until you grasp the paper in your hands. You breathe deep; close your eyes for a split second.
Then speak.
“Nicole Soderman--victorious.”
