Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 3)

He knelt down and picked some wild flowers from the ground, and with trembling hands he placed them inside me. The boy cried, watering the flowers with his tears.

I had no idea why he was crying.

He stood from the ground and walked with me in his arms until we were inside a little tattered shack which, as I presumed, was his home. The shack was in a pitiful condition, but at least it was a lot better than where the beggar once slept.

The first thing I saw was the figure on the floor, curled up in between a sleeping mat and a soiled blanket. It was a sleeping woman in her midlife, though her condition made her look a lot older. It would not take a genius to know that the woman had been sick for quite a long time.

“Mama,” the boy whispered as helped the woman to a sitting position while still holding me.

“Look what I’ve found, Mama,” the boy said.  “A pot just like the ones you’ve been collecting before.. See, it has a lovely heart-shaped crack too… But this one’s the most beautiful… It has the largest heart.”

It took me a while to realize that the boy was talking about me. I had no idea that my crack was heart-shaped, and it had been so long since I was last called beautiful…

But no matter how much I wanted to believe the boy, I could not.

A heart-shaped crack, no matter how beautiful it might seem to them, is still a crack.

The boy’s mother looked at me – at my crack specifically, and smiled faintly. She cupped the boy’s face with her pale hands and whispered. “Yes, my child, the pot is lovely, thank you… and the flowers are beautiful.” She kissed the boy’s cheek and embraced him, a bead of tear falling from her eye.

Each day after that, the boy and I would go out and pick some wild flowers for his mother. He believed that doing this would restore his mother’s health, for collecting pots and flowers made her happy. And happiness, as some would say, is the best medicine.


It was the very first time that I felt useful… I have learned to love the boy and the woman, and willingly served them. They became my home.

But still, I failed.

His mother died eventually with me in her hands. Another death in my life as a stray pot.

One day, when the boy was walking by the sea, he cried his heart out. He gave me one last teary look before throwing me into the waters.


I thought it was the end of me… but surprise, here I am, floating a midst a heavy storm, as waters slowly penetrate my fragile body. I feel heavy and weak. I wonder how long I must endure before the waves crash over me…

and then somewhere, from within me, I heard a voice saying  “be still.”

And for the very first time, I listened.

(To be continued)


Daily Prompt: Home Sweet Home


Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 1)

Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 2)


12 thoughts on “Confessions from the Cracked Pot (Part 3)

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