Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Calvin always argued to never think of today. He just kept looking forward, to not just tomorrow, but next month, next year, the next ten years. He planned and executed. He saved. Days were rungs of a ladder and the top was in constant view, his green eyes gleaming as he spoke about each step taken. For that was the beauty of Calvin. His thin blonde hair would stand awkwardly on end in even a light breeze, but his magnetism never faded because he didn’t promise, he just performed. He spoke of what was, but never of what will be as he was too busy making it all happen. Over and over. Achievement was a simple matter, like breathing to everyone else. And so when Cheryl died, the ladder collapsed, the view falling away into the sky as if gravity no longer held his world in place. Because she was his center, his sun, and he’d worked so busily and eagerly that he had no orbit, his plans losing all sense of what they’d been and what was next. Twenty-seven years of beach walks, dinners at sunset, loving during thunderstorms, smiles in the kitchen, the morning bed, the car. So many days of cautious eating, alcohol abstinence, and carefully monitored blood pressure. So much preparation, special accounts, life insurance policies, careful spending and deferred travel. People never realized Cheryl was Calvin’s engine; her welfare drove his accomplisments. He was supposed to go first, not her. It was always the plan.


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