They are a chip in the china; they have a small scar that blends in with the rest of the flawless white. They are not perfect. Their heart screams, but they live.
The others are the broken porcelain pieces on the floor. They cannot be fixed without seeing the millions of cracks, deep to the bone. All through a foggy window they watch the pink and orange of dawn light up the world until the blues and purples of dusk paint it black; and the day after it is a re-run of the sunrise and the sunset, and then the next day, the sunrise and the sunset, the sunrise and the sunset, all through a foggy window in a dreary room. The flowers compensate for the lack of color and energy in the room, but do not fulfill their futile duty: to deliver hope. The windows mirror the outside world, and when the sun says good morning their only desire is to be released from their painful dog leash and to walk among the greens.
I wanna go outside.
Oh, I am sorry, sweetie, but another day would be better. Do you want to draw some flowers instead? There are more colors of crayons than there are colors outside.
I don’t wanna draw it I wanna see it! I wanna go lemme leave!
All I have is Forgive Me Blue. I am so sorry honey…
I am sorry honey, it does not matter what your friends think, you just have to do it.
But Mom! What will my boyfriend think?! He won’t want someone connected to tubes, and he sure won’t want to hold hands with someone with scarred fingers. He’ll think I’m disgusting.
Honey, we all know that is not true; just calm down and take your medicine.
This is not medicine! Quit making me feel like I am sick or something embarrassing.
Sooner or later, you are going to have to accept the fact that this is something you will have to do.
Mom, I can’t afford to be looked at like a freak.
A freak? You cannot say something like that in front of your daughter—if she heard you she would feel worse than she does. She is finally getting a change of scenery! Just tell her the scarf is part of dress up.
Since when do little girls put scarves on their heads?
Since now. Tell her… tell her it is a crown; she is a princess. Here, I have several more; this is perfect…
If they were princesses, then they would be Rapunzel, locked in a tower and seeing the world as it passes by. Their faces would crumple as they see something new out the window. A tall sunflower stretching to the sky. Another child flying a kite. A nightingale nestled in the crook of a blossoming tree, serenading the moon. Balloons no longer in the hands of someone else, freedom sending them to paradise. Though where is paradise when they are locked in a tower by the Evil Queen? Or when the torment of a cryptic monster will not disappear with a look under the bed?
Waterfalls flow violently down bold, rosy cheeks as a nurse holds the little princess back. Comprehension is an enemy here because it opens the door for uninvited interpretation. Knowledge is not welcome to everyone. A needle is behind someone’s back. The child goes
limp.
Onto the bed she goes. Glides down to the hall. SURGERY up above. Mean tools that would provoke nightmares to the child’s wide eyes. Hours and hours and hours and hours. Comatose room. Sore body. Eyes open on the wilting flowers.
Across the hall is a newbie. Wrong wing. Emergency?
Steam flows from burning ears and a tomato face. A shriek like a boiling kettle of water echoes into the halls. A tiger ready to pounce. Yet terror eclipses the anger. Anxiety fills the air.
New territory. Like Dorthy in the land of Oz. Alice down the rabbit hole.
Unwilling to understand.
I don’t want to do this. Why do I have to do this? This is stupid. Is that a needle? Wait! What is that for? WHAT! No. Stop. I’m not ready. No, wait. Stop! Please stop! Stopstopstop!
Relax. This is not a death sentence. It will take less than a second.
I can’t.
You have to. It takes no time at all.
It takes time every single day; though the chips in the china are not noticeable until a finger is pointed at them.
Broken pieces of porcelain lie on the floor. The largest of the pieces have been picked up. They have been glued, but the cracks are gaps in the ground from an earthquake. The smallest of the white glass are hidden like chameleons on the floor. Until a foot finds it and a shrill shriek is vibrant in the air, it does not exist.
Why is that girl wearing a scarf on her head?
Quit pointing!
Mommy, why?

She was probably sick, now stop. Do not make a scene.
I’m not making a scene! I mean look at me—you can see it under my shirt! People are going to stare at me. What if the tubing comes out of my pocket? Ohmygod, people are going to think I am a mutant! I can’t go shopping like this!
Nobody can see it! I cannot see it and your sister said she did not see it. What else do you need?
She needs another surgery. The last treatment was ineffective.
Ughhh…I need more sugar—these tabs are having no effect on me!
Her white cell count is low.
My blood sugar is low. Mom, I can’t ever do anything. I missed language and French and math, and then I missed the warm up at practice and everyone thought that I just didn’t want to run!
School started last week! She can’t miss anymore.
There are not any more options.
The glue could not hold the weight of the world together. Ever so slowly the pieces made their way back to the floor. Unrecognizable fragments. Ugly and abominable.
The pieces fell into the chimerical grave with its siblings. The flowers are still at the window. They are as black and white as the room they once lived in. They are hoping for impossible things now, and they know it too, because their faces look to the ground and their petals are tears on the floor. They mourn for multiple losses in the unconscious room.
The flowers outside are beautiful. They dance in the wind like she dances with the machine. They strain to be in the spotlight of the sun until they glow radiantly in the moonlight. The chip in the china is no longer the prominent characteristic.
It is the unfailing beauty of the painted roses. The detail on the edges. The color white, somehow seeming so ancient and unique for the
first time.
Because a chip is nothing but a scratch or an itch compared to the torment of shattered glass.
A chip? What do you mean? This is classic.