M é lisande Fitzsimons The Butchers Standing in my Gitane-blue dress among pristine legions of Nathalie, Christine, and Isabelle, a sea of white at our First Communion, I hear Cush, the Angel of Relevance, whisper in my ear: “Do you sometimes feel that you are not who you see in the mirror?” It’s not Melissa Millicent Mellisandy Messianisme or Melissandre (WTF). It's not Mailsand except in high Californian, Mailsand, like a beautiful fish in the mouth. It is an acute fever, accented, un s entre deux voyelles se pronounce z . Mamimi is what my mermaid sister called me, as I sat on my edge of the seat. Time has been fair, in that respect: I am here to tell the story. It’s a Spring name that erupts with branches, impatient, pushing, pulling and rhymes with sweetness and honey. It is not my last name, another complicated maid with long, blond hair that my father changed to Italian when he took over a restaurant. There is a simplicity there that I still miss. A d