My mother has gone back to her maiden name after nearly 40 years of living as a Thompson. Though she was happy, she says, to take my father's name when she married him, now that the marriage has dissolved she wants to release the past and forge a new life, and she doesn't want to do that with somebody else's name. In short, sisters are doin' it for themselves.
I know that it's her decision to make and that, furthermore, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet even if the name were "stinkweed" or "skunk cabbage," and on Valentine's Day we'd tell our friends, "Oh, it was so romantic! He gave me a dozen long-stemmed stinkweeds!"--or we'd talk about people dancing the tango with skunk cabbage clenched in their teeth and no one would bat an eye because that's just the way things would be.
It still feels strange, though. I can remember a time, not too long ago, when everyone in my family--my parents, my three sisters, and I--all had the same last name. All of a sudden I look around and my father and I are the only ones left. I feel like the last of a dying breed.
Well, this seals it. From now on, my dog Lucy is taking my name and that's final.
Thompson for life, yo.
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