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.