My name is brisk. It releases easily from the lips and sounds like a winter wind dancing amid the trees. My name guides my way by listening for voices that call for it. The yellow teardrop sound from the “Z” combined with the orange sunrise sound from the “ch” construct a beautiful sun.   A Phoenix whose beautiful flames shimmer in the ears of people in audible distance of its calling. 

Its Germanic roots and biblical guest appearances give me many other nicknames but I prefer Zach or Zachary.  4 letters,1 syllable from my friends. 7 letters, 3 syllables from my family. 

My family calls me Zachary. The name printed on my birth certificate. Like a heated blanket keeping you warm during a cold rainy day. Or the name that goes before “Thomas Fitzgerald” when I am in trouble. Zachary is the hug from my mom when I'm sad. Or the feeling of opening a present, fir tree bristles poking at your feet. The feeling of drifting to sleep while a campfire's warmth cradles you. 

Zach. My condensed name is used by teachers and friends. It’s simple. Convenient and easy. Perfect at getting my attention. Zach is the sound of thunder, the residue of lightning. Zach is the vibrant sparks that happen when a hammer strikes hot metal. Bursting into not-quite-destructive flames but instead  a beautiful array of colors. Zach is the model that is blinded by spotlights and deafened by camera clicking. Zach is the shiny sports car with the pop-up headlights. 

James. The name that I almost carried. The name sounds like an English nobleman who starts his morning off with a cup of tea. This name came from my dad’s side of the family. A generational trend. But luckily, my mom was not a fan. So she picked the name Zachary instead. 

My name is like a calm light that leaves an outline in the stormy night sky . Tranquile fire that burns peacefully at a family campfire. Zach. Zachary. I love my name. No other name is the same. Like a puzzle, my name fits me.