something odd
There was once a girl with a flower pot on her head.
She couldn’t take it off. Every day, wherever she went, she always carried the flower pot on her head. It was very heavy, and everything she did was an effort.
People stared at her whenever she went past, because, well, she was unusual. And nobody liked someone unusual. People nodded and gave her polite smiles in school, but nobody wanted to talk to her. Nobody wanted to sit near her in class, especially at the desk behind her because they couldn’t see over the flower pot on her head.
The girl with the flower pot on her head was alone.
But one day:
Is it heavy?
She looked in surprise at the person who spoke the words.
It was a boy from class.
What?
She didn’t understand.
That flower pot you always carry on your head. Is it heavy?
No one had ever asked her that before.
When people mumbled their way through a conversation with her, they’d always averted their eyes from her “deformity.” Their eyes always fell away from her face, they’d look embarrassed, uncomfortable; their words always small talk, meaningless attempts to fill in empty spaces.
But not him.
Yes. It is.
He didn’t look away from her. The expression on his face was sad.
I thought so. It looks heavy.
They stood together in the empty corridor of the school. There was nobody else around, because it was afternoon, and they were the only ones left still waiting for their parents to pick them up.
It must be hard. Carrying that weight by yourself.
She nodded.
Yeah.
He looked over at her.
Can’t you take it off?
Although he was taller than her, with the added height of the pot, she towered over him by at least three inches.
No. I can’t.
She hesitated.
…It’s too heavy.
He stared at her, looking up at the terracotta pot balanced on her head.
Then, slowly:
Can I try?
She watched him take off his school bag and put it down beside his feet. But even if he stood on his toes, he couldn’t reach the flower pot. So she carefully lowered herself down, to her knees.
He put his hands around the pot and tried to lift it.
The pot came away in his hands and suddenly everything around them was shining, the voices of angels and cherubim sang in the background. And the girl turned into a beautiful princess, because apparently she had been cursed and only a handsome boy could save her by lifting the weight off her head. And then they fell in love and got married and lived happily ever after.
LOL, JK.
The flower pot didn’t budge.
The boy tried again, the palms of his hands became numb and white as he strained to move the flower pot away.
His face was twisted with concentration and effort as he tried, again and again, to lift the weight from the girl’s head.
He kept trying, until his palms stung from the harshness of the terracotta.
…you can stop, you know.
The girl spoke up.
It’s okay. You don’t have to keep trying.
The boy stared at her, the frustration obvious in his eyes.
But-
The girl smiled.
Thanks anyway.
The next day, the boy turned up to school late. Everyone was astounded when he showed up in the doorway of the classroom, almost at noon. The teacher didn’t know what to say. The other kids and students tried not to laugh, tried to look away, but it was impossible not to talk about it.
He stood there, face flushed, sweaty and worn out. On the top of his head was a terracotta flower pot, tied around his head with string and held on with masking tape. It wobbled around whenever he moved and on the side of the pot was a long crack from where he dropped it in the morning.
She stared, like all the other kids.
In the afternoon, at the end of the day when the corridor was empty and they stood together once more waiting for their parents, she asked:
Why?
He looked at her solemnly. His neck was tired and his shoulders and chest were sore from balancing the pot on his head all day. He could no longer feel his arms.
He looked straight ahead, not at her.
Everyday you are always alone. The weight you carry on your head is heavy, but you carry it anyway. Whenever you walk, you drag your feet a little. You never run. Even when you turn your head, it takes you a long time.
He was silent for a little while, his head bowed as if in thought. Then he looked over at her, and said:
I thought that if I could carry your flower pot for you, you would not have such a heavy burden.
He paused, and then looked away.
But I am not strong enough.
I’m sorry.
His face fell, his mouth turned down, upset.
The girl wanted to say something, but no words would come out.
Instead, he spoke again.
This pot on my head is not that heavy. It is nowhere near as hard to carry as the one you have. And unlike you, I have only been bearing its weight for one day.
Just for today, even though I can’t carry your burden, I thought I would try to share this weight. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can do.
The girl with the flower pot on her head stared at the boy beside her. Although she was not used to conversing with people, and it was an effort to move, she slowly stretched out her hand to hold his.
Thank you.
And she smiled, the brightest smile he’d ever seen.
It’s more than enough.
She couldn’t take it off. Every day, wherever she went, she always carried the flower pot on her head. It was very heavy, and everything she did was an effort.
People stared at her whenever she went past, because, well, she was unusual. And nobody liked someone unusual. People nodded and gave her polite smiles in school, but nobody wanted to talk to her. Nobody wanted to sit near her in class, especially at the desk behind her because they couldn’t see over the flower pot on her head.
The girl with the flower pot on her head was alone.
But one day:
Is it heavy?
She looked in surprise at the person who spoke the words.
It was a boy from class.
What?
She didn’t understand.
That flower pot you always carry on your head. Is it heavy?
No one had ever asked her that before.
When people mumbled their way through a conversation with her, they’d always averted their eyes from her “deformity.” Their eyes always fell away from her face, they’d look embarrassed, uncomfortable; their words always small talk, meaningless attempts to fill in empty spaces.
But not him.
Yes. It is.
He didn’t look away from her. The expression on his face was sad.
I thought so. It looks heavy.
They stood together in the empty corridor of the school. There was nobody else around, because it was afternoon, and they were the only ones left still waiting for their parents to pick them up.
It must be hard. Carrying that weight by yourself.
She nodded.
Yeah.
He looked over at her.
Can’t you take it off?
Although he was taller than her, with the added height of the pot, she towered over him by at least three inches.
No. I can’t.
She hesitated.
…It’s too heavy.
He stared at her, looking up at the terracotta pot balanced on her head.
Then, slowly:
Can I try?
She watched him take off his school bag and put it down beside his feet. But even if he stood on his toes, he couldn’t reach the flower pot. So she carefully lowered herself down, to her knees.
He put his hands around the pot and tried to lift it.
The pot came away in his hands and suddenly everything around them was shining, the voices of angels and cherubim sang in the background. And the girl turned into a beautiful princess, because apparently she had been cursed and only a handsome boy could save her by lifting the weight off her head. And then they fell in love and got married and lived happily ever after.
LOL, JK.
The flower pot didn’t budge.
The boy tried again, the palms of his hands became numb and white as he strained to move the flower pot away.
His face was twisted with concentration and effort as he tried, again and again, to lift the weight from the girl’s head.
He kept trying, until his palms stung from the harshness of the terracotta.
…you can stop, you know.
The girl spoke up.
It’s okay. You don’t have to keep trying.
The boy stared at her, the frustration obvious in his eyes.
But-
The girl smiled.
Thanks anyway.
The next day, the boy turned up to school late. Everyone was astounded when he showed up in the doorway of the classroom, almost at noon. The teacher didn’t know what to say. The other kids and students tried not to laugh, tried to look away, but it was impossible not to talk about it.
He stood there, face flushed, sweaty and worn out. On the top of his head was a terracotta flower pot, tied around his head with string and held on with masking tape. It wobbled around whenever he moved and on the side of the pot was a long crack from where he dropped it in the morning.
She stared, like all the other kids.
In the afternoon, at the end of the day when the corridor was empty and they stood together once more waiting for their parents, she asked:
Why?
He looked at her solemnly. His neck was tired and his shoulders and chest were sore from balancing the pot on his head all day. He could no longer feel his arms.
He looked straight ahead, not at her.
Everyday you are always alone. The weight you carry on your head is heavy, but you carry it anyway. Whenever you walk, you drag your feet a little. You never run. Even when you turn your head, it takes you a long time.
He was silent for a little while, his head bowed as if in thought. Then he looked over at her, and said:
I thought that if I could carry your flower pot for you, you would not have such a heavy burden.
He paused, and then looked away.
But I am not strong enough.
I’m sorry.
His face fell, his mouth turned down, upset.
The girl wanted to say something, but no words would come out.
Instead, he spoke again.
This pot on my head is not that heavy. It is nowhere near as hard to carry as the one you have. And unlike you, I have only been bearing its weight for one day.
Just for today, even though I can’t carry your burden, I thought I would try to share this weight. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can do.
The girl with the flower pot on her head stared at the boy beside her. Although she was not used to conversing with people, and it was an effort to move, she slowly stretched out her hand to hold his.
Thank you.
And she smiled, the brightest smile he’d ever seen.
It’s more than enough.
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