James Taylor Gray

after Charles Harper Webb ~Taylor Gray James, my mother told me, was the name of both my grandfathers, though we called one Bill and the other Frank. It precedes me with a staunch formality, stiff with unsaid shapes, and bitter, a second generation standby. “Wait,” I am told, as if by my moving some mystery would remain forever folded, “Your first name is not Taylor?” This is always a surprise, upsetting, even, that so easy an exchange is made: no form, no fee, no notice, not even a bowl of lentils, and the “first” is resigned, its place taken without so much as an attempt at biblical reference, and no relation, even, to the popular folk musician. Gray has remained neutral to their feud, too busy with official paperwork, shuffling cards and applications. They all meet on weekends, bringing their respective dishes: salads, drinks, deserts. James sits aside, arguing semantics, Taylor has brought his guitar, and Gray, who’s been waiting all week to relax, stands drinking between the other shades.