Steve Colori was born in 1986 and during undergrad he developed schizoaffective disorder. Over the years he has worked hard to overcome the disorder and help others while doing so. Steve Colori has published twelve essays with Oxford Medical Journals, he has written freelance for Mclean Hospital since 2011, and he has a memoir available on Amazon, "Experiencing and Overcoming Schizoaffective Disorder". He writes regularly for The Good Men’s Project in the Health & Wellness Section. Steve has also been lecturing Mclean Hospital's Harvard Resident Doctors since 2012. To read more of his work please visit SteveColori.com
What Drives the Wind?
Holding hands, we crossed the street near the elementary school. The crossing guard smiled as we passed the young kids with their little backpacks and sneakers walking beside their parents.
“Today’s the day he gets out of jail,” Charlotte said. Tears were running down her face.
“We can’t do anything about that.” I said. We stepped into the park where the leaves on the trees were burning red, yellow, and orange. The fire filled my eyes. It was a different fire than I used to light. We walked for several minutes.
“He killed my Chloe,” Charlotte said.
I let my tears run with hers. My heart was calm. “What do you want from him?”
“I want him dead!!!” she cried. “I want him dead,” she sobbed as she dropped to the ground. I sat beside her and put my arm around her. “Why are you so calm?” she asked. Her blonde hair was moving with the wind.
“I don’t wish him dead.”
“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked.
“He was in a rush to get to work.”
“He was in a school zone, Larry. A God damn school zone.” The wind howled softly.
“He tried to kill himself,” I said.
“Why didn’t he succeed?”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” I sniffled and stared at a tall oak. I clasped my hands together.
“Something has to happen,” she said.
“Chloe wouldn’t want us mad. She was such a happy girl.”
“She always drew sunflowers in green crayon,” Charlotte cried. “Why do you forgive him?” she sobbed.
“I was sick with guilt and anger and everything wrong with the world,” I said.
“But he’s responsible.”
“I was too.”
“How can you say that?” Charlotte asked while looking at me.
“I’m the one who let her cross the street,” I replied.
“I know that. It’s not your fault though.”
The leaves rustled by crinkling forward and around us and swirling in all different directions.
“Why don’t you hate him?” she asked.
“He was a doctor. He was on his way to work to save people.”
“He killed our daughter.”
“I couldn’t let go until I forgave him.” Charlotte turned my face and put her forehead against mine. Her eyes were shut and I shut mine.
“I love you,” she said. “I love you so much.”