Gerald approached the tall oak in the center of town. It was so old that even the elders recalled it standing proudly in front of the cathedral. Its leaves sounded like fragile paper in the wind, its branches danced to the soft music of voices far away.

            He was required to register his name in the book embedded in a hollow at the base of the tree. This wasn’t the original book, for his people had been recording names since time began. Since people learned to write. As each book filled, one of the town’s ministers replaced it with a new one, one with clean pages, ready for continuing the ritual.

            Gerald bowed, tossed a coin into a basket for that purpose, took one, two steps forward. He placed his right hand on the trunk, bowed his head and asked for forgiveness. Hope. Success in life. Blessings for his family.

            He’d brought the family pen. His grandfather had inscribed his name using it, as had his father and his father, going back generations. No matter how old, it never ran out of ink, never lost the ability to record another name.

            Which name should he write? His birth name or his preferred name?

            Gerald hesitated as his mind dwelled over the dilemma. Birth or preferred? Preferred or birth?

            With lightness filling his mind, Gerald leaned over the book, placed the tip of the pen on the page, and wrote.

            Gerald. Peggy.