Dear, Aidan, Aiden, Aedan, Eiden

Dear, Aidan, Aiden, Aedan, Eiden

Ayden. It’s the name you get when your mom names you instead of your dad. If dear old Dad had a say, you would’ve wound up “Tank.” I guess he found it funny. Surely a fitting name for the 142 pound, 5’10 guy who can’t figure out for the life of him why the microwave buttons just won’t press or why he can’t make it to recreational frisbee on time. In an alternate world where my mother hadn’t stopped him, there’s a skinny guy named Tank running around, probably terrorizing babies or doing whatever someone with the misfortune of being named Tank does, completely indestructible. But I’m Ayden, something softer, something that sort of fades around the edges.

Ayden is the name you get when your mother reads too much mythology and your father is Irish. Aed or Aodh, the spelling changing just like mine, was a Celtic god. He was the God of Fire, the Sun, and depending on the myth even the Underworld. He was the start and the end. He was the heat like the microwave and the sun beating down on a group of frisbee players. Light and shadow. Two sides. My parents chose Ayden because it’s strong, bright, meaningful- or so I like to tell myself. 

My name means “Little Fire.” Ironic, isn’t it how I’m all burnt out? My head can’t help but scream to me how much it wants to hit the desk and fade to black and I have to tell it that it can’t. While the sun is up, as is Aed, I just can’t help but fall asleep. It’s as if the fire dims all day, smothered by something I can’t quite catch. In truth, I think I have more in common with Cerridwen, the Goddess of the Moon. I’m up all night staring at her after all. There’s a certain kind of quiet in her eyes and a beauty in her glow, but I suppose her glow is only the reflection of the sun.

Ayden. What a meaningful nothing of a name. It slides off the tongue but catches on pencils and turns into the millions of other spellings that I can’t help but be familiar with after years of misspelled Christmas cards. Every year I got cards with joyful little Santas and $20 enclosed, addressed to someone I swear isn’t me. To have people I’ve known my entire life sending money, coffee cups, and forms to a man named Aedan, Aidan, Aiden, Eiden, or any other name but my own. One time my girlfriend, who I had been with for two months, had written me a letter, in which not even she could spell my name right. Now, I’m her ex-boyfriend “Adin.” Every time I give someone my name it becomes clay in their hands, and they warp into something completely unrecognizable. They can never get it right, and I’ve stopped expecting them to.

At home, I’m never Ayden. I’m 1. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get a name, but that’s never my own either. So I just sigh and respond when my mother calls me down for dinner by “Jackson!” or “Lucas! Get down here!” Although, I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re the oldest of five. It’s never my name they call, just my number. At home names aren’t those of Gods worn down by time, instead they’re a guttural noise made to get someone’s attention in a chaotic household. 

And yet, despite all of that, Ayden remains mine. A silly little name that slips right through the cracks, misspelled on cards and coffee, and murmured incorrectly in the hallway. It’s shaped by all the buttons I can’t press, the frisbees I’ve missed, the flickering fire, and my reflection in the moon. Maybe it’s not the fortress my father imagined, or the divine beauty my mother expected, but it’s mine. Ayden’s the name I carry through the chaos and the quiet, through the light and the shadow. It’s far from perfect, but I guess that means it fits.

Author

Ayden Dillon

Artist: Jackson Kim-“Construction Site Ahead!”