Laurabeth Klara Lockwood.
My first name was a combination of my mother’s first and middle names. Klara was an eastern European great-grandmother I’d never met, my mother’s grandmother. My mother died when I was six. I should have clung onto my name like a child to outgrown holiday traditions because it was a tie to her, but the name was a daily reminder. Your mother named you for herself and her grandmother. Your mother is dead. Your mother is dead. Your mother is dead.
I had my mother’s jewelry, her knickknacks, her blanket chest, many, many photos, even dried-up perfume bottles—but did I really remember that fragrance on her, or had I convinced myself that I did? I could remember her in a thousand ways; selfishly, I wished that I didn’t have to be her every time that I wrote or typed my signature.