Adoptive Brethren

What can I say about Stephen? He’s always there, always at the periphery of my life.  A reassuring presence in my screwed up life.  Sometimes that lanky frame may be there in body; chin resting on long fingers but his mind is elsewhere following the script in the books he always has clutched before him.  Oh he’ll use new technology, true, but give him a stinking old tome any day.  Preferably made of vellum.

He says little but sees everything with those calm brown eyes.  He is rarely pushed to show outward emotion. When I need him he always comes.  It may take him a little time to find me but he always comes through. Stephen is a good man who will not be moulded or coerced into anyone’s designs.

Which is what fascinates me about Stephen so much.  Why me?  Why defy his spiritual leader, his greatest teacher, his own father to protect and shelter me like he has done this past six years?

Saint Stephen, the Martyr

Saint Stephen, the Martyr

He never explains and I’ve learned to be content with that.

What I do know is that I love him.  He is my brother. My only constant.

I don’t know if he would die for me.

I’m not sure I’d die for him.  I’d kind of hoped that we’d never have to find out.

Shit happens.


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