My name is royalty. Brian was a King of Ireland. I don’t’ know when. I don’t know what kind of ruler he was. I only know his name. We are forever linked in that way. When I was younger, I was Little Brian. My father, Big Brian. I remained Little Brian until I grew taller than Big Brian. Our names sit differently in the corners of my mother’s mouth. Our names echo through walls in different octaves, fill hallways and bedrooms with different dimensions. We spell it the same, but write it with a different slight of hand. I hear my name linger on the kitchen counter near the cough syrup and thermometer. It is all syrup and fever. It is living room bed and lips to the skin. My name will always sound the same way it did when I heard it from the inside of a womb – the syllables muffled and sharp at the same time like a distant door slam. I will always be Little Brian, except for all the parts of me that are tinted with Kings of green pastures and drink.