Shattered

I’ve always preferred justice to mercy.

It may sound almost morbid, but it’s true.

Allow me to explain, in the form of a metaphor.

I know metaphors are typically Julie’s domain, but allow me to give it a shot:

Justice is like a father to me.

I miss it in the mornings, when all we have is mercy,

When children run wild, throwing stones and breaking pots.

Mercy is like a mother. I do love mercy, I do,

But when justice comes home at the end of the day,

The children stop running and the pots get fixed,

The damage is undone and the criminals are sent to prison,

Only then do I feel whole.

Mercy cannot do that. Mercy forgives too fast.

Mercy is quiet, gentle, and never seems to be looking when trouble strikes.

Mercy is nonsense.

I do not prefer nonsense. I prefer reality.

Strict, fair, and just.

THE SUN IS INCREDIBLY BRIGHT TODAY!

IT’S LIKE EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE IS ON FIRE

AND YOU COULDN’T PUT IT OUT IF YOU TRIED!

BUT WHY WOULD YOU TRY?

I LIKE THE SUN. IT MAKES PLANTS AND TREES AND FLOWERS.

DO YOU LIKE FLOWERS? I KNOW I DO.

ROSES AND TULIPS AND DAISIES AND DAFFODILS

AND CHRYSANTHEMUMS AND LILIES AND IRISES

AND ROSES. AND DAFFODILS.

I LOVE DAFFODILS MOST OF ALL BECAUSE

THEY’RE BIG AND BRIGHT YELLOW!

THEY REMIND ME OF THE SUN.

Imagine not a yard with trees, stones, and pots. Imagine instead a bakery.

No, a garden.

No, even better! A flower shop.

Imagine not a yard with trees, stones, and pots. 

Imagine instead a flower shop, long ago,

With roses that sang the song of summer,

Tulips like soldiers or crayons in a box,

Daisies and lilies and anything you could dream of.

Now, imagine that one day, a brand new flower arrived in the shop,

Her bright yellow petals open wide, heralding herself like a grand trumpeter,

Golden as a sunbeam in her terracotta pot.

Imagine, if you will, a daffodil.

If you’re wondering who shattered the pot, I can tell you.

It was John. 

Yes, I know,

Surprise, surprise.

It wasn’t any great crime either. He threw a stone, it hit the pot.

The pot broke.

John broke the pot.

Not that you need to know, anyway.

You are like mercy, you know.

I don’t mean to say that you are nonsense,

Only that you are gentle. Quiet. 

You are the kind to turn your back and face a wall while the pot shatters behind you.

I’m not insulting you.

There is room for justice and mercy, there must be.

I just prefer justice, 

And I anxiously wait for him to come home.

I HOPE YOU ARE FEELING ALRIGHT TODAY, MOTHER.

IT’S BEEN RATHER COLD ALL MORNING,

KIND OF CLOUDY, AND I THINK I MIGHT HAVE FELT A DROP OF RAIN!

NOTHING TOO SERIOUS, OF COURSE.

NOTHING TO KEEP US INSIDE OVER.

I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU WERE FEELING GOOD.

LAST YEAR, MY TEACHER DIDN’T SHOW UP FOR TWO WEEKS!

SHE SAID SHE CAUGHT A COLD.

I HOPE YOU DON’T HAVE A COLD!

I COULDN’T BEAR TWO WEEKS WITHOUT YOU.

And all the other flowers,

The roses and lilies and daisies and tulips,

Were outrageously jealous of the daffodil.

So instead of charity, they took to cruelty,

Mocking the poor daffodil until her petals began to wilt under the weight of sorrow.

Whenever the shopkeeper created a bouquet,

The other flowers would push the daffodil to the side,

Disrupting the balance.

The shopkeeper, bearing no mind to the grudges of flowers,

Merely assumed the fault to be the daffodil’s.

So back on the shelf the daffodil always went,

Trapped in the cage of her terracotta pot.

Wilting. Weeping. Dying.

You seem rather calm. You shouldn’t.

If you knew what was best, you wouldn’t.

What happens if John never sees justice?

If justice returns and John is set free?

Or worse, if John is never even detained in the first place?

I shudder to think.

It’s blasphemy!

Justice is not just a father, you know.

Justice is God.

God sent plagues to cure Egypt, fire to cure Jerusalem,

A flood to cure the entire Earth!

That is fair! That is justice!

Mercy is no God.

No.

Mercy is more like a daffodil.

It may seem pretty in the spring when it peeks through the snow

And brings with it the hope that summer may still come,

But that hope won’t save the daffodil when the winter clouds roll in!

When its bright yellow petals turn to brown, then gray,

Then disappear completely under the ice,

Leaving nothing but a reminder of the nonsense that a daffodil is.

I do not prefer nonsense.

I believe we’ve had enough nonsense for one day, don’t you?

WHAT WONDERFUL WEATHER!

I DON’T THINK IT’S EVER BEEN MORE SUNNY THAN IT IS RIGHT NOW!

NOT A CLOUD IN THE SKY!

THOUGH IT IS A BIT WINDY.

WINDS LIKE THIS CAN BE DANGEROUS, YOU KNOW.

MY TEACHER SAID THAT SOMETIMES IT GETS SO WINDY,

THAT THE WIND CAN JUST PICK YOU UP AND THROW YOU IN THE AIR!

THEY CALL THAT A TOMATO.

I SURE HOPE IT DOESN’T GET THAT WINDY,

OR ELSE SOMETHING MIGHT BREAK!

One day, when the daffodil had finally had enough,

She developed a plan.

“If only I could leap from this shelf,” she thought,

“Perhaps they could learn to love me!”

Whether they could or whether they couldn’t didn’t matter much.

The daffodil needed to break free.

So with no other choice, she began to rock.

Back and forth, left and right,

Left, right, left, right,

Left!

Right!

And suddenly, she was moving forward! Struggling, striving, straining, leaping!

NO, MOTHER, THERE’S NO REASON TO GO OUTSIDE.

AND WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO?

IT’S SO HORRIBLY COLD!

IT’S THE WORST WEATHER WE’VE HAD IN WEEKS!

AND TERRIBLY WINDY TOO.

WHY, I’D GUESS THAT ANY LOOSE GLASS OR POTS

ARE SURE TO BE BROKEN.

DEMOLISHED, EVEN!

SHATTERED! 

John broke the pot.

Julie didn’t help much, either.

She was meant to catch the stone, but I don’t think she was even looking.

Perhaps she should know justice too.

It’s rather clear that I already know justice well enough.

Besides, you know I wasn’t playing with them.

I was where I always am. Sitting on the porch.

Not throwing, not catching, not breaking pots.

Only watching.

Watching John and Julie scream when the stone hit the pot.

Too far away to stop it.

Just close enough to hear the sickening crash when the pot shattered.

And suddenly she was moving forward! Struggling, striving, straining,

And she harnessed the last of her might to leap, tumbling over the ledge!

Flying!

The flower shop was spinning in her vision

The roses stopped their singing to watch her soar,

And even the tulips broke their concentration when they saw her in the air!

The shopkeeper fell to his knees in what could only be admiration

As the daffodil kept flying, flying, flying!

But as soon as she reached the summit of her flight,

Swift began the long descent to the floor.

Falling.

The roses gasped, the tulips yelled,

The shopkeeper simply closed his eyes.

And the daffodil, trapped in her terracotta pot,

Hit the ground like a drop of rain

And shattered.

SHATTERED!

Shattered.

Shattered.

So you see, sometimes pots just break themselves.

Sometimes they just can’t help it.

I GUESS WE’LL HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL MORNING TO SEE THE DAMAGE.

IT’S A SHAME, REALLY. A SHAME.

John broke the pot. Julie didn’t help.

And justice is on its way.