The Blue Vase

On the living room shelf sat Mom’s blue vase. It was round, with little birds painted all the way around it. Grandpa had given it to her a long time ago. Mom put flowers in it almost every week, and Sam liked to count the birds: there were seven.

That day, Sam was playing ball in the living room. He knew perfectly well that balls were for outside. But outside it was gray, and the ball was brand new. He threw it, gently. Then a little harder. The ball bounced off the couch, zoomed toward the shelf, and bumped the blue vase.

The vase wobbled, once, twice… and fell onto the rug. It didn’t smash into a thousand pieces. But a small piece of the rim had come off, and a thin crack ran down past one of the birds.

Sam’s heart was pounding. He wrapped the little blue piece in a tissue and slipped it into his pocket. He set the vase back on the shelf and turned it so the crack faced the wall. He put the ball away at the very bottom of the toy box. Nobody had seen a thing.

At snack time, Sam wasn’t very hungry. The little blue piece in his pocket weighed almost nothing. And yet Sam felt like he had a big rock in his tummy.

That evening, Mom came home with yellow tulips. She filled the blue vase with water and put the flowers in. A little later, she frowned. “Huh? There’s water on the shelf. Where’s that coming from?” She looked at Sam. And Sam heard his own voice answer, “I don’t know.” The words just came out by themselves. The rock in his tummy got even heavier.

At dinner, Sam pushed his peas from one side of the plate to the other. He thought about the seven birds. He thought about Mom, trying to figure out where the water was coming from. He thought about the little blue piece, in its tissue at the bottom of his pocket.

So Sam got up. He took the tissue out of his pocket and set it on the table next to Mom’s plate. Inside was the little blue piece. His voice was very small. “It was me. I was playing ball in the living room, and the vase fell. And before, I said I didn’t know.”

Mom looked at the blue piece. Then she looked at Sam. She took a deep breath. “Thank you for telling me, Sam. That wasn’t easy, was it?” Sam shook his head. And all of a sudden, the rock in his tummy was gone, like a soap bubble floating away. Mom pulled him onto her lap. “Balls are for outside,” she said. “And let’s see if we can fix the vase together. You know, when I was little, I broke Grandpa’s glasses, and I hid them in a drawer.” Sam’s eyes went wide. “And then what?” “Then I finally told him, and we both ended up laughing.”

On Saturday, Mom and Sam glued the little blue piece back on. Mom took care of the glue, and Sam held the vase nice and straight. You could still see a thin line where the crack had been. But now the vase couldn’t hold water: it leaked out through the tiny gap. Mom sighed. Sam frowned at it for a moment… then ran to the kitchen. He came back with an empty jam jar. “What if we put this inside?” The jar fit perfectly inside the vase. They filled it with water, slipped the tulips in, and you couldn’t see a thing.

Now the blue vase is back on its shelf, with its seven birds, its thin line, and its hidden jam jar. It’s not quite the same vase anymore. But Mom says she loves it even more than before, because now it has a story. On Sunday morning, the sun streams into the living room and lands right on the shelf. In their hidden jar, the yellow tulips lift their heads toward the light. Sam counts the birds: there are still seven. And his tummy feels as light as a feather.