Of history and sentiment
I am knowing. I am wisdom. I am a woman sitting alone in a dark room with a crystal ball in her lap, looking at the days to come. I am the hill that children climb up, only to roll right back down, screaming their heads off. I am all these things. My name allows it. Kendra.
It provides an explanation in my thirst for knowledge and my desire to simply look down and be able to see the world before me. My last name is pure information. It tells me where I'm from. A stream in Scotland is where I will someday return. It’s where I belong. My name demands it.
Between the wise prophetess and the Scottish stream, a Germanic red flower grows. A Rose. It grew off of my great-grandmother’s bush, and was clipped from her branch to be passed down to me.
My name is unique and has it’s own singular meaning. It has significance and reason. I have no nicknames because I need none. My name alone gives definition to a splatter-painted canvas of history and sentiment and, without it, I would only be a muddy mess of confusing colors.