My parents are dead.
My father’s brother, my gay uncle, had no children.
And before that, the name was what some clerk wrote down.
At the immigration desk in the port of San Francisco.
When my great-grandfather said Zigmund.
And he heard Simon.
So, nobody in the old country.
Not that any would have survived what happened there.
I have no children.
My brother does.
He has a daughter.
But she will take on the name of whatever husband or wife she takes.
Her children will have their name.
And my family name will be no more.
Simon says, disappear.