My Ethiopian Brother

(For Abera)

He came quietly,

not like thunder

but like spring rain.

One moment we were strangers

at the African Student Association meeting,

the next—

he was on the floor

building towers of blocks

with my children,

laughing like he’d known them forever.

He never asked if I needed help.

He simply showed up.

When the injury struck,

and word spread like wind through our small community,

Abera was there.

Trash bins emptied.

Toys sorted into corners.

Tiny socks folded by a pair of hands

too young to carry the weight he chose to lift.

He swept not just my floors,

but the sorrow gathering in my heart.

He played with the children

like they were sacred,

never an inconvenience.

He called me Big Sister,

and I trusted him with the title.

Because he earned it.

On the day I delivered,

he became the village.

Took the children to school,

dressed them in joy for picture day,

brought them to the hospital

to meet their baby brother

as if ushering in royalty.

Even after healing,

he stayed—

a constant presence

until graduation carried him

back to Ethiopia.

Now, he’s a doctor—

a healer in name

as he always was in spirit.

And though an ocean stretches between us,

I tell his story like scripture

to every Ethiopian student I meet.

I say,

“There was once a young man named Abera,

whose kindness held my house together

when I could not.”

And they smile,

because they recognize his name—

and somehow,

his spirit, too.