My Name is Dorothy

Toto had glass eyes and smelled like instant coffee.

My mother crocheted a small grey and white blanket from leftover yarn with the aid of the dim light over the kitchen sink. She then unearthed a scruffy white poodle from my closet and dyed its shaggy coat with three cups of her favorite instant coffee. After a night spent by the heater and a quick blast from the hair dryer, the stuffed dog was crammed into a wicker Easter basket and covered with the grey blanket. Toto was ready for school, but Dorothy failed to appear. Instead of partaking in my school's "Storybook Day," I stayed at home nursing the flu with the hundredth viewing of The Wizard of Oz.

Since that fateful day, I have been resolved to miss nothing more. Now I rejoice in the simplicity of summer's end, the diligence of the autumn woolly worm, and the magic of the first snow. I applaud the plight of those who never give up and marvel at the pear tree that retains its leaves until winter's winds wipe away summer's decay. I wonder about the package delivered to the house across the road and remember the clear brackets glued onto the mail carrier's blue-white teeth. I think of Christmas and BB guns and the setting of the low winter's sun. I remember fireworks, blueberry tongues, and paper cartons filled with ice cream. I recall the stories of Ace and the smell of rich coconut. I sing with the Lollipop Guild and chuckle. I never noticed the multitude of flowers growing from all those tiny shoes.

My name is Dorothy, and I'll never stop exploring and remembering.

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