Agnes, of no one.

A few minutes ago, from the comfort of my two seater couch which at times feels too small when I’m lying horizontally, I saw a bird flying through a light shower of rain, strutting like it was God’s gift to mankind.

Graceful, yet proud. Quiet, yet commanding.

And, in the true spirit of wasting time, I decided to name the bird.

It looked like a Steve, so I said, ‘Hi Steve… looking pretty sharp today.’

Not that he could hear me. I’d only known him for a few seconds, so we hadn’t established a common language, yet.

Right behind him was another bird. ‘Oh hey, Steve’s wife,’ I said out loud.

But then again I thought, ‘Wait, no, Steve’s wife can’t have her whole identity revolving around her husband. She, too, needs a name.’

And there I thought, pondered for a few solid minutes, treating the matter with the gravity of a national crisis, until I finally reached a conclusion: her name would be Agnes.

And I said, ‘Ah yes. Steve’s Agnes.’

But then again I thought, ‘Oh no, that’s still making her the property of Steve.’

So I gave it another try, even sat upright so I could think clearly. And then it came to me, first faintly, then boldly… a name that was going to be rightfully hers and shared with none:

‘Agnes. Her name shall be Agnes, of no one.’

Then a little too proud of my successful naming convention, I whispered, ‘I release you, Agnes of no one, may your days be long and healthy.’

Then I snapped back to reality and continued thinking about the laundry I should’ve done half an hour ago.

I didn’t end up doing it. But I thought about it.

And maybe, just maybe… Agnes of no one, and Agnes’ Steve were rushing home to do their laundry too.