I was born time and again the moment my name was articulated from the deep place within his chest. The flow of his breath carried it up until each consonant and syllable are caressed upon those plush lips, so gently and so carefully as though I would break into pieces if he got my name wrong. Mine was so foreign, ancient, and out-of-place that some either decided not to call me by my name or they just said it whatever they liked. But that was never his case. His name was so simple and neat I got envious of. It was truly the first name given to mankind, and in the seventeenth century his would stand for the first alphabet being taught to little children. "My name is too dull," he said, "I like yours". And I would frown, asking "why? Pray tell". He was deep in thought and finally said, "yours is weirdly constructed with unnecessary alphabets, yet the sound is familiar enough. You are like others, but trickier. Every time I call you, there is the word in my mind that I never mess it up or switch the M with the H. It is not necessary, but it is there — alphabets and order that become you." And he said it. My name. I was shattered, made, and born again.