Summer of 1998

I was named after two things: my great-grandmother and a song by Boston.

The song was actually the deciding factor in this decision.

Anyways, my great grandma.

I met her once before she died, and she said a couple things to me that will stick with me forever:

All of us great grandkids were lined up all prettily in a row, each taking our turn to hug our great gram.

“She smells like foot,” the guy in front of me said. I secretly wondered if he was telling the truth. Can you feel the love in this family yet?

“I’m Amanda,” I said shyly, seven years old and antisocial to boot.

She smiled a crinkly, more-gum-than-teeth smile. “Amanda,” she said, “let me tell you a secret.”

She leaned in to me, and I was so excited I forgot to smell her.

“You know what ‘Amanda’ means?” I shook my head ‘no’. “It means ‘love’. Don’t let anyone ever treat you like trash, because you’re worth all the love in the world and always will be, okay?”

I nodded eagerly. I was, and still am, a sucker for flattery.

“Oh, and never let anyone call you ‘Mandy’, unless you really really love them. You are Amanda, you got that? I won't have my great granddaughter going by that poppycock name of Mandy. Now, go off and play with your cousins.”

I jumped away to play, living for the moment.

She died six months later, but her words have stayed with me.

The only person who calls me Mandy is a best friend of six years.