My name—Noël—has been mispronounced, mislabeled, and mistaken since my parents bestowed it upon me one snowy March afternoon. It wasn't until a friend nicknamed me "French Christmas" that it came into focus.
How much would our lives change if we could just see things differently?
We pass down a taste for the primal things. I study them, learn them by the way they feel in my mouth, call them by name when they begin to rise. Bit by bit, I wean my tongue and my stomach off old hungers, off the flavor of rage and ashes.