Shirly never liked her name, and she always wondered why a decent person would call a tree a western larch when you could call it tamarack instead.
As
far as her name went, she wished to be a Belinda. Maybe a Blossom. Why not
Enola? A name that opened like a window and let a little light in.
Shirly
heard music words in names. And yet she fell for a man simply named Bob. Not
much more than a single note, Bob, but sometimes a single note is all a melody
needs to begin. He agreed to call her Enola, and she liked the way he said it:
Ee-no-LA. A big, bold LA to end with a flourish. A symphony could hardly do
better. Easily enough to build a love upon.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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