Brown and Tan
Brown and tan, brown and tan. That's what we both wear. I match him better than I match my own brother. No surprise, since he practically owned me when I was growing up. His bastard ways rubbed off on me. But I'll never be like him. I'll stick to myself, farm my tomatoes, and not bother anyone. But I can't. I keep thinking of him, coming up out of Sicily on his chestnut horse, with the leather greased and worn, and his weapons, metal glinting in the sun, but not pointing at me. Pointed over my small head at the great invaders in the North, who held my brother captive. He offered me his hand, and took me up behind him in his saddle. I wrapped my arms around his lean middle and gripped the crossing straps as tight as I could. And I didn't look, but hid my face in his back as he drove the vile invader from my territory. When it was done, he took me down from the horse, and smoothed my hair, and he handed me one of his short swords, and he gave me a horse, a chestnut mare like his. And he dressed me in his tan uniform and flew his flag over my house. But I let him stay, because he was my savior, a sweet gentle ruler who held me while the invaders threatened and taught me the skills of country-making. And I grew to be older, and felt trapped by him, and perhaps I threw him out. Now my country is my own and I am master of my own affairs.
But I miss him. I miss his dark hair and his bright laugh and his bastard tan uniform. I miss my bastard captor. Because he in more than a jailer. First he was a savior, then a father, then a true love. I cannot wash off his stain from me. And so I suppose I must give in and let him hold me again, even when no invader laughs from my brother's house. His arms are soft and warm even when no danger threatens.