I Am

        Ten fingers, two palms, calluses, nails filled with dirt. I sighed. What did it matter? Hands do not make an identity, yet they proved I’m here. I existed, I was somebody. Yet I am nobody. To be someone, you must have a name.
         People do not realize the blessing it is to have a name. The lack of a simple word has cast me off from society. Years ago I had went to school. All was well and good until someone asked for my name. I had to answer “No one.” They called me “weirdo,” “freak,” “reject,” and “worthless.” I could see in the eyes of the silent ones that their thoughts concurred. That day was the closest I had ever come to having a name. I never came back. The stark reality of my agonizing existence was too evident.
         I did not know where I came from; I did not know what I looked like. I’m still alive; someone must have cared for me as a baby, why did they not give me a name? Did they hate me? Why do I remember nothing of my childhood?
         I lived in a makeshift house, scraping by through a makeshift garden.  The loneliness could be unbearable sometimes, but without an identity, companionship was impossible.
         Some people say they hate their names. They will never understand that the most horrendous name is better than the terrible existence as an anonymous pariah.  Who comprehended the importance of a title? The pain of the fate without?
         I fingered the end of my mousy brown braid. I began to drift off too sleep. I wished I knew the color of my eyes. Nothing defines me, nothing except inevitable isolation. I am no one.
         I awoke with a start. Voices. No one came around here, what was going on?  I heard it again. “Isabelle!”
         Isabelle, that’s a nice name. Whoever Isabelle is, she must be lost. That lucky girl has a name, and someone who cares enough to look for her.
         I considered for a moment going out to look for her, I know this area well. But then I realized no one trusts a person who refuses to give their name. Isabelle wouldn’t understand, just like everyone else. Oh well, I hope they find her.  I closed my eyes and did my best to block out the yelling.
         I was almost asleep again when I heard someone in front of my house. I slipped out the back to wait until he realized she was not there. I could not believe the words that next came from his mouth.
         “Isabelle, I know you live here!”
         It couldn’t be! But it had to be. I was the only one that lived here. My hands shook. Someone is calling me by name.
         I crawled silently to where I could view the stranger. Tall, with brown hair and beard, he looked almost friendly in the moonlight, but I did not dare come out. Suddenly, he looked straight at me, though I knew he could not see me.
         “Look, I know you don’t trust me, but I’ve got some things to tell you.” His gaze never left my place.
         “You are Isabelle. You have always been Isabelle. You are loved. You are neither worthless, nor a freak. You will do great things. Your place is not here; your place is in community. Go forth Isabelle, leave behind your misery.”
         I sat there, mind reeling. What does this mean?
         “Remember, you are Isabelle, you are loved.” He began to walk away, “You’re eyes are blue,” he whispered.
         “Wait!” I shouted, the initial shock worn off. “What about my past, my parents, please…” I bolted to where he had just been. Not a sign of him remained. My brow furrowed, was I dreaming? I screamed as my hand brush some sting nettle. I gritted my teeth, I’m not dreaming now.
         I began to smile, despite the pain. “Thank you,” I whispered into the darkness. A peaceful feeling stole over me. I was no longer an exile, I was someone. I am Isabelle.