I couldn’t sleep last night. I started to look up baby names not because I want a baby right now, I just have names in my mind for future possible babies. I find the meaning of names to matter, the name Lewis popped into my head not because It has necessarily made the baby list but because It was my brother’s middle name.
Randall has been gone for a little over a year now, In the obituary the part with my name read, “Randall is survived by his sister Grace Lewis.”
I found this remarkable as my older brother Eric had written the obituary; my middle name is Louise and surely after all of these years you would think my own brother would know, “Lewis is a boy’s name.”
I typed Lewis into the duckduckgo search engine, Lewis means “renowned warrior”. “Wait a minute,” I thought, “Doesn’t my name mean the same thing?” I knew it did but I needed confirmation, I keyed in Louise and Yep, “renowned warrior.”
I used to look at Randall and declare, “Look its my brother from another mother.” We would both smile. It was true. Randall and I were adopted. His biological family came from somewhere in the south. He was half Puerto Rican. My biological family came from the north.
I am half Jewish.
Its too late to joke about how we were just a couple of famous fighters. That everyone knew our names and there certainly was a time when the town of Middlesex did. A few explosions involving a bus, a cat in my bag, a crime I didn’t commit, and a mythical gang of men brewed up by my bro was all it took for a ten and twelve year old to capture the stares of old women everywhere.
Destined for fame and fighting, we succeeded at both. Little did either one of us know how much we had in common (more on that later). In the aftermath of his death, I am left with the keepsake that our names were the same.
Lewis and Louise…