"What's my name mean again?"
"Benjamin: Son of my right hand." We've been talking for a few weeks about what that might mean. The son of someone useful, because the right hand is always useful, and that's as true as anything.
"What's yours?" he asks Evan.
"God is good and it's from Wales."
From the front seat I say, "What's my name mean? Something-something pure?"
Ben answers. "Loveness. Your name means loveness."
My name means loveness to a five-year-old. There it is, then, scruffy-topped, another year about to begin.
The great gray empty. Tell me what your ship looks like.