Baby Brother

A Short Short Story by Mir Yashar Seyedbagheri

When I’m seven, Nancy calls me baby brother. I’m trying to follow her to the movies.

I want to step out of pudgy feet.

When I’m twelve, I’m still baby brother, even though I’m writing my first stories.

I ask why she calls me that. Nancy laughs. It’s my duty.

Same when I’m going to college. But there’s a sense of being in those words. A compass point. I’m not just a name.

When I’m twenty-six, I publish a book.

My baby brother’s Dostoevsky.

Among agents, emptiness, those words echo like bells.

I beg her to call me that often.