#you're allowed to leave your corpse to those who prefer to wallow in rot rather than rejoice in your bloom

[cheerchime]

It is Easter and it is Trans Day of Visibility and I am with my grandparents, who are so loving, and my father, who is also loving but forgetful, and I transitioned years ago, and my dead name sucks the air from my lungs every time it's said, which is often.

It is usually a direct misnaming. And I gently say, "I go by Gordon these days, actually" in that friendly jokey way. And I am bearded, and low-voiced, and a woman in the hall called me a dapper young man. And my grandfather clarifies to my grandmother, trying to be kind, "She uses a different name now."

To my grandmother, I am sometimes her son. I am sometimes a friendly young stranger. Or, sometimes, I am the dead name, and she asks if I have a frog in my throat, and goodness, what a mustache! There's no shame in shaving, she assures me.

Sometimes, she asks where dead name is. Sometimes, she supposes I must be dead name's husband, though she never knew me to date men.

It's not fair of me to be hurt. They are old, and ill, and have always been so, so kind. They love their gay son, and they loved me as their gay granddaughter.

My father is a wonderful robot who loves the forest but doesn't see the trees. A fountain of love for humanity, but only a vague understanding of the individual humans. He cannot call me by my name, and I know I can't take it personally. It simply doesn't matter to him, and that is alright, because I know he loves the idea of me, and loves my queer world, even if he will never actually see me as me.

I am here, in my phone, reminding myself of my great fortune, the great love my family has shared with me. But I am also here aching to be known by the people who have meant the most to me.

In perfect moments, however, my grandparents do remember. And I am Gordon, and Gordon is loved, even though he was reborn in ways they don't fully understand.

Then it's gone, and I let them see whatever ghost they want to see, and I am an invisible grandson carrying the corpse of their granddaughter like a pallbearer, buckling under the weight of myself.

It was worth it, my rebirth, whether or not they see it.

It is Easter Sunday, and I saved my damn self.