Dorothy by Andrew Graham Martin

Who told you there could be ghosts in your closet? That you have the same number of fingers as toes? That we live in a lovely and humid place called Indianapolis, Indiana? That twinkle twinkle little star and the ABC’s both follow the same uncomplicated ladder of a melody? Do you remember who used to sing those songs to you when you were the size of a loaf of bread? When we sing, do our voices sound perfectly on pitch to you? When you sing, does yours? Who was it that told you my real name was Jacob and your mom’s was Esther? Where did you pick up the idea of names, anyway? If it were solely up to me to explain to you the abstract concept of naming things, could I do it? How would I begin to convey the idea that a person can be named after another person, and that you in fact are a beautiful example of this? When you wake up and tell me yes, you’ve been dreaming, dreaming of Grandma—have you really? Does she act like herself in your dreams? Do you act like yourself? Or can you speak in full sentences? Articulate every nuanced and complex thought you surely have? In your dreams, are you able to explain to us why you insist that frogs go quack quack quack, and that wind is frightening but thunder is funny, and that rays of sunlight in the backseat are bugs you can shoo away? Can you tell us why you will happily count up to ten—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10–but refuse, for now, to climb back down?

Andrew Graham Martin’s writing has appeared in Bat City Review, Cleaver, Post Road, SmokeLong Quarterly, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. He lives in Indianapolis with his wife and baby daughter.