Morning Glory
“Why, God, do I bear this life and they don’t?”
The fresh cut flowers stand perfectly tall in their vase; the one crafted and sized to fit them and
only them.
They reach for the sun seeping through the open blinds—desperate to soak up any light. They
long to absorb.
Are they jealous of the morning glories they watch outside?
The morning glories—who are rooted firmly in the ground, who see all the mornings, who see all
the nights, who meet all the animals that fatefully pass by, and who are visited by all the children
with endless curiosity.
They get to soak it all up. They get to experience.
They haven’t been torn, uprooted, stuffed, and forced to live in this tiny vase—this tiny life.
Nature never forgets them; they are always supplied.
They get to live in glory.
Yet, from outside, the morning glories grow envy for the flowers in the vase—the ones protected
inside the window.
Maybe the morning glories long for safety in a place away from the beatings of the sun, from the
relentless downpours of the sky, from the hungry and thirsty animals, and from the prude, prying
children.
They long for safety from the chilling nights, from the agonizing noise, from the fear of being
stomped upon.
They long to be picked for keeping; they long to be chosen.
“Why God do I bear this life and they don’t?”
From inside the house, the flowers in the vase are pleading the same question.