Give yourself to the Journey. Allow the Journey to lead you to your Spirits and your path may be opened to you.”I turned to her, “You said, your s...ns, but I thought they were cousins.”She smiled, “Yes, the white culture would call them cousins. Our culture does not have words for uncle, aunt, or cousin. We are all part of the family. My sister’s son is my son. My son is her son. Our culture is inclusive; we rely on and support each other. The white culture divides and separates. That diminishes. Last week I left my garage woodshop at noon, as is my custom, and drove to the grocery store to pick up a cheap lunch. Walking in from the parking lot, I was greeted by a cheerful old gentleman, sitting on a bench outside the market with a sack of groceries. He was clean and well dressed but terribly scarred. We exchanged pleasantries and I went in to do my shopping. On exiting, I found he was still there, so, not having any pressing business I offered him a ride. He told me he had been waiting. You owe me cock.” She tugs on his member. Marcel flinches. Crysta feels his reaction in the muscles of his thighs.“Take off your pants”Marcel obeys. His steel-blue gaze leaves her as he draws his pants down to the floor. She admires his handsome profile and those flawless, chiselled cheekbones. Stubble threatens his chin. Mine. She thinks fleetingly, proudly. Wickedly, Crysta leaps up off the bed. She means to prolong their foreplay, rushing outside into the cold of the afternoon. He watches. Bear hug doesn’t even begin…It was official. The entire process was FINALLY over and we we’re actually brothers. Zane moved in for good today, his last night in foster care now over. “Broskiiii!!” I laughed, wrapping my arms around him and grinning ear to ear as the rest of the family walked a little more calmly in.“Awww look at my two precious sons!!” Mom commented, her and Mrs. Capelli chatting about how much we looked alike and how precious it was that we were best friends already. Dad.
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