Rebecca. In Hebrew it means captivating, but when I hear it I think of a stormy sky. Dark blue. A strong breeze. The number 21. A vase full of only mucky water. November. 

Rebecca means the smell of my grandma. The love and warmth. The old lady sweaters she constantly wears that smell like mothballs. It reminds me of when she would braid my hair as I sat at her kitchen table, all the times I helped her make brownies and cookies, us just talking about whatever was on our minds. 

But when you get to the nickname Becky, it is nothing like me. Sounds like icky. Feels like the 1950s. Looks like rotten apples on the ground at an apple orchard. Like when my brother is making fun of me. Like he doesn’t see that I have feelings. It sounds like disrespect and mockery. 

Becca is better than Becky. Almost smoother, but still like a blunt pencil. An overpowering wax melt. A ripped-up piece of mail. Becca sounds like all the times a teacher or friend has called me Becca before asking if I went by Becca. One teacher I had refused to call me Rebecca for three years.  

But Rebecca reminds me of Chocolate ice cream, stormy ocean waves, crisp apples. 

It reminds me of when I got lost at the beach and my parents were calling out to me. When I am in the middle of a race and I can hear my friends cheering for me. On Christmas morning when I see my name written on many tags by the people close to me.

Rebecca fits me because of all the memories I have with the people I love. And neither Becky nor Becca will take that place.