My mother is named after magnolias, 

after women going to war. 

My dad is named after whatever he wanted to be, 

and I’m named after him and the gentle morning sun. 

It’s May, and one morning we’re running 

down the hills of Providence while everybody else sleeps. 

“Are those cherry blossoms?”

“No, they’re magnolias,” I say, 

watching them fall at my feet.