Updated: Aug. 16, 2023
Originally Published: May 17, 2023
“Oh, I don’t mind—Lila or Leela, either works,” I replied casually.
“You must be one or the other!” she insisted. “How did your parents pronounce it?”
I opened my mouth to respond, then hesitated. To my shock, I couldn’t recall.
It always catches me off guard how long it’s been since my mother passed away—eight years now. It seems surreal that the years without her are starting to match the years I had a mother by my side. My father will have been gone three years this coming June. Unbelievable.
People often say that time eases the pain of loss, and while I somewhat agree, it’s a complicated sentiment. The intense grief of the early days gradually transforms into a dull ache, a weight that’s more manageable over time. When I dream about my parents now—which I still do quite often—I wake up with a sense of gratitude, as if one of them dropped by to say hello from a distant place.
Yet, there’s a flip side: the unsettling truth that as time passes, you begin to lose pieces of the memories you desperately want to hold on to. For instance, I can’t quite recall how my parents said my name.
There are still vivid memories of my mom and dad: my mother’s scent after a warm bath or the smell of my dad’s leather jacket mixed with the lingering aroma of his evening cigarette. I can hear my dad’s hearty laugh and his signature sneeze, and I remember how he called for our dog. My mother’s voice, filled with emotion as she sang her favorite songs, also echoes in my mind.
But their way of saying my name? Those memories elude me, just beyond my reach, like a cloud that refuses to solidify. My brain seems to prioritize the details of my daily life over this particular memory.
In the film Beaches, Barbara Hershey’s character, Hilary, struggling with terminal cancer, frantically sifts through a box of photos. “I can’t remember my mother’s hands!” she repeats in distress. When Bette Midler’s character, C.C., finds a picture of Hilary’s mother’s hands, Hilary visibly relaxes. Even as a teenager watching this film on repeat, I understood the symbolism: Hilary feared that her daughter might start to forget her, just as she had begun to forget her own mother.
The fear of forgetting intertwines with the fear of being forgotten.
A friend shared a rather sobering quote from the graffiti artist Banksy: you die twice—once when you breathe your last, and again when your name is spoken for the final time.
Maybe I thought, there’s a third time: when the very people who brought you into existence are no longer around. Who will remember my first words or my childhood antics now that my parents are gone? Lila or Leela—what’s my true identity? Only my parents could have answered that, but they can’t now.
Or perhaps not. My older siblings, aunts and uncles, my grandma and stepmom, and family friends are all still here to help piece together my narrative. Losing both parents early taught me a tough lesson: while they gave me life and a name, what I do with it is ultimately my responsibility.
So, how did I respond to my inquisitive friend? After a brief moment of reflection, I recalled how my older siblings and family pronounce my name. I considered what I prefer to be called. With that clarity, I answered confidently, “Lila.”
I’m fairly certain that’s how my parents would have said it too. It would be nice if the last person to ever say my name gets it right, but if not? I still hold onto the memory of my dad’s coat and the sound of my mom’s voice singing sweet tunes. I have family and friends who will carry my memory forward, even if some details fade over time. They are the ones who will continue to say my name today—even if they don’t always pronounce it correctly.
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Summary
This article explores the intertwined fears of forgetting and being forgotten, reflecting on how the passage of time affects memories of loved ones who have passed. It highlights the emotional journey of coping with loss while cherishing the lasting connections that remain.