The great grandmother, who closed her eyes before I opened mine
Left her cold imprint, forever on my rounded forehead
Not with her own senses, no she didn't
It was the lips of others, related and unrelated
Who decided
To let her faint memory
Reside
In me
But
Does it really?

What is my name to her, a dead woman?

Who in her life, had barely been called by her own?

Who would never have known, fifty years after her death, a girl with her blood running in her veins, would be given the same name?

Had she known then, would she have liked it?

To have someone you do not know, have you as her "namesake"?