Jamie

It meant “love” and “wisdom” from the books that my mother held.
It meant “overthrow” and “supplant” from the dictionary my father kept.
It meant both tenderness and Machiavellianism.
It meant both love and war.
Yet, what, really, did it harbor?
What was this blend of sweet and scheming?
This contradicting five-letter word?
It was Jamie.
Jamie, the holder of the heel who grasped that of the firstborn twin.
Jamie, who was to flow with compassion, generosity, judgment.
Jamie, who would ask why.
Jamie, whose mother and father both would wear the same smile, uttering entirely different things.
“You are an ambitious fighter,” her father would whisper.
“You are a sweet, altruistic girl,” her mother would murmur.
The same name, a different light.
The named girl, a different person.
A girl who cannot live up to her name.
A girl who cannot be both the supplanter and the wise.
Indeed, I am Jamie, but I will never reach her worth.