Grandmother wanted to name me Gabrielle. My mother didn't want people to call me Gabby. She must have had a sixth sense. My teachers in elementary and high school would have led the charge with that nickname given report card comments that often began, "sweet girl, a little too chatty."

Wanting something unusual (ironically, it's rather common nowadays), my mother baptized me Danielle Colette. I added Marie-Therese upon my confirmation at aged thirteen. And Tezcan upon my marriage a decade later. It was some 20 years before anyone actually called me Danielle.

My mother called - and calls - me any number of things - pooh bear, pumpernickel, darling, Danny Girl... I was almost an adult before I knew the song Oh Danny Boy was not an alternate (nor erroneous) rendition of the song she had sung to me.

My grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and childhood friends called - and call - me Danny. Briefly, perhaps just the weekend of the retreat when I claimed it, despite the sweatshirt where the name even now still lives, I was Dizzy Danny. An attempt to invent a less serious version of myself - with, alas, dubious success.

I had a babysitter who called me "De-nelle." My great grandmother called me "Damn-yil" (seriously). My great great grandmother called me "Daaaaaaa-ny" in a rather sweet, gravelly sing-songy voice.

My daddy called me baby till the day he died.

Since my sophomore year in college I have been Danielle to everyone I have met. Thus, I know how long I've known someone by whether they call me Danny or Danielle.

Except...

My husband calls me canım benim (my soul) sevgilim (my darling), aşkım (my love), birtanem (sweetheart), her şeyim (my everything), hayatım (my life) and fıstık (peanut).

Once upon a time, my son called me Mommy. Now, I am Mom.

One day, if I am lucky, I will be Grandma or Nana or Granny.

Of all the names I have been called, which is my favorite? Debatable, but I think Mommy wins. Granny might overtake the lead someday...I will have to get back to you on that one.

A hidden river,

Flows through the grove of willows,

Old branches draping down,

Under the crumbling stone bridge,

That long ago,

Saw many carriages safely over the rushing waters,

But now,

Forgotten,

Too unsturdy for cars,

To low for boats,

A path that is no longer used,

A river that gives no more,

Used to be a grand old time,

Used to be the life of the day,

But blondes in pink dresses,

No longer come,

Boys with fishing poles and caps ,

No longer come,

Mothers with picnic baskets and crying babies

No longer come,

Fathers with crates of beer and friends,

No longer come,

The green beside the river,

Forgotten,

Once more.

Dance in the garden each morning

And sing in the afternoon

Clock in as the sun awakens

And clock out beside the moon.

Work with a love of working

And work at a lighthearted pace

Seize what the world has to offer

While appreciating its grace.

Explore what needs exploring

And just for the joy of it, fly

Join in the hum of the hive

And twirl a new path through the sky.

Be grateful for every flower

Each one a soft Monet

Spread love to the gently buzzing hive

All together, a yellow ballet.

I wrote this 3 years ago, so cheating on the challenge, but I wanted to share because I think it's the happiest thing I've ever written and I still really like it :)

My lungs were full of the water we floated in, but my grandmother twirled through it with grace and a tranquil smile on her lips. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t, not because of the sea that filled up our kitchen, but for the way she moved through it, unperturbed, busy preparing our supper. My grandfather coughed out seawater and did his crossword puzzle at the kitchen table. The stove was ablaze, the soup bubbled, none of us could breathe, and my grandmother stirred the soup. She set the table and the dishes floated away, so she caught them and set them down once again. She buttered the bread and I couldn’t tell if I was crying and she struck a match and lit a candle and I so drifted over to sit with my grandfather. We held hands to pray and so that we wouldn’t float apart; the three of us, at our underwater table. My vision was blurred and I was inhaling seawater and my heart calmed as we sat together. My grandfather blew bubbles like smoke rings and my hair floated up above me and my grandmother laughed at us both. We blinked the saltwater from our eyes and smiled as we complimented my grandmother’s soup, and here we ate in our underwater kitchen.

The following is a brief introduction written by the advertiser:

“I’m neither too fat nor too thin, eat anything, and have bouts of hayfever every morning but am generally recovered by midday. I play music for at least three hours daily and it’s possible I’ll be up in the middle of the night to write out the music that’s playing in my head, which means I might also have to experiment by playing it so I’d appreciate your buying me an electric piano with headphones. This of course is optional; if you’re not keen on spending just get yourself a pair of good earplugs.

Am good with children but have a fragile back so will require your help at home all hours to carry the babies. I’ll wash the dishes but you’ll have diaper duty. I tend to write spasmodically and if I have a good novel idea I’ll drop everything (another good reason for you to be the baby-holder), rush to the computer, and type it all down. I appreciate compliments but criticism of any kind will not be tolerated.”

From the editor:

We understand your eagerness to answer this advertisement but you must be aware that the young woman is only fifteen years old and therefore unprepared and unwilling to embark upon the journey of marriage and motherhood at present. If you leave your name on the list you’ll be notified of future developements.*

Please sign here: _______________

*Note: waiting period may be up to ten years.

You hold your brother’s little hand

Don’t let go

He’s humming the song he knows drives you crazy and you tell him to stop

He slips his hand out, smiling

Calls your name as he runs away

Why aren’t you watching him?

One moment, his laughter

And the next

Silence

Hello, friend, I’ve missed you

Come sit with me awhile

My heart’s in need of mending

And you always make me smile

We’ll talk about just anything

Forget life’s little pains

Tell me the stories you’ve told me before

I’ll hear them all over again

Come now, time is short and sweet

Already it passes away

Most likely you have somewhere better to be

But please; for a moment, stay

The tail wiggled in his hand, thrashing about, trying to get loose.

“Almost there, buddy.” The man muttered.

The streets were dark, no one walking them but the man with the tail. Wind whispered through the trees and a white cat pranced into the road. It stopped and watched the man for a while, eyeing the tail clutched tightly in his fist. When the man reached the end of the block, the cat moved on.

The building on the corner was famous in these parts. Not for what was inside, but for what was outside it. Inside was a boring old corner store with a boring old man who sat there all day, ringing up candy and ice cream while he watched whatever game happened to be playing.

But outside was a whole different story. A mysterious someone whom no one had seen, came in the dead of night some months ago and left behind a sprawling mural. It was a dragon. It was a wolf. It was smoke. It was water and air. It was even fire. But tonight, tonight it was a cat, black and sleek, twisting around to see the space where its tail should have been.

The man stopped to face the cat on the wall and chuckled to himself. “Now how did this end up so far away from your behind?” He asked the cat, holding up the tail in his hand. It thrashed and squirmed harder than ever, almost jumping at the wall.

The man sighed through his smile. “Well, I guess it can’t be helped. Here you go.” And he reached up and stuck the tail right on the mural.

As soon as the tail touched the wall, the cat sprang to life, its tail reattached, looking good as new. The cat jumped right out of the mural, leaving a sprawling forest behind. A small mouse darted through the brush, then stilled, taking its place in the focus of the mural. The black cat stalked into the street and sat down right in the middle.

Then, out of thin air, walked the white cat. It trotted forwards and paused in front of the black cat. Their noses touched and they rubbed their heads against one another. Then, completely in sync, they turned and walked down the street, shoulder to shoulder, and disappeared.

If there was anyone on the street that night to look around and wonder what had happened, they would notice that the man was gone as well, as if he had never come, and the mouse in the mural looked as if it had been there always.