Olivo
I have never called another brother.
Never needed to.
Never thought to.
Because I have always had one—
since the first breath I took,
before I even knew what a name was,
before I could shape a word to call him by.
He was already there.
Before I understood the weight of loyalty,
the shape of kindness,
the quiet lessons folded into laughter,
he was teaching them to me
without ever meaning to.
I have never searched for another brother.
Never longed for what was already given,
never had to carve out space for someone else
because he has always filled it—
not as an obligation,
not as a duty,
but simply because that is who he is.
His name means olive tree.
But even without the fruit,
he is an ever abundant tree,
a presence that shelters,
roots that steady,
branches that reach beyond where I ever thought I could go.
I have grown in his shade,
leaned against his strength,
and found myself stronger for it.
Even if I am a pain to make plans with,
He understands it.
I do not just have a brother.
I have had the rarest kind of fortune—
to walk beside someone
who does not just better my world
but has, in more ways than I can count,
made it.
