Almost Movornin

My mother loved to tell stories about us back when we were a family, before my father died.

When we moved "back" here to Lakeland (where she had lived with my father's parents after they were married, while he was overseas, and where they lived together after he chose a different career path), I looked forward to driving around, hearing her adventures and memories, seeing places I remember her talking about when I was a child, and thinking about my own memories of visiting my grandparents here during Christmas and summer breaks.

I didn't care how many times I heard the stories... they always meant so much because you could feel the excitement and love she had for my father with her every word.

One of her favorite stories to tell me was about how my sister and I came to be named what we are.

My mother was a Margaret. Generations of Margarets. Aunts named Margaret.

The oldest daughter being named after the mother.

My mom went by her middle name (where my sister got her middle name), my grandmother by a shorter version, but all had that name. When it came to me, she wanted something a little different, and found that Meghan (spelled correctly) is the Gaelic version of Margaret. 

The story did not end there. 

My father also had thoughts about what his first child should be called.

My mom, as moms do, had a long drawn out story about that. My father had a friend when he was younger who had a little sister, and he wanted to name me after that sister, always believing that his daughter would behave like this young lady. Wild, happy, free. 

My dad, when he overheard the story, would just say, "She said, 'Honey, I don't think she's going to be able to spell that,' and that was the end of it. You were named Meghan."

They called that little girl Mo. My understanding was that he wanted to name me Movornin so he could call me Mo.

I laugh about this still, and tell this story to people (probably more often than they want to hear). 

My dad has been in my thoughts a lot lately. So many changes, so many adventures, so many events that I wish he was not missing. Things I want to say to him, want to ask him - and one person in particular that I would love to introduce to him. 

Then last night, while scrolling, I came upon this.

I immediately began crying. 

Movornin, in the proper spelling (I guess she was right, I wouldn't have been able to spell it, but in my defense, I had never seen it written before). "My darling." A gentle expression spoken to those held closest to the heart.

I wonder if, all those years ago, when he suggested that name to my mom, he knew the meaning of the name he was offering. I wonder if he told her the meaning.

My father, always gentle and soft-spoken. I can see the conversation playing out in my head, him telling her and her saying, just as he said, "Honey, I don't think she's going to be able to spell that," him slightly shrugging and letting it go.

I wonder if, in his head, he thought of me as Movornin.