The Apothecary’s Measure
The old apothecary kept one green bottle on the highest shelf. It contained a fever draught that took months to prepare and could not be made again until the winter herbs returned.
His young apprentice had been warned never to touch it without permission.
One afternoon, while reaching for a jar behind it, the girl struck the shelf. The green bottle fell. She tried to catch it, but it shattered against the bench and cut her forehead.
The girl did not cry out. She stared at the medicine spreading among the glass.
The apothecary crossed the room, sat her on a stool, washed the wound, and wrapped a clean strip of cloth around her head.
All the while, the girl kept saying, “I am sorry.”
When the bandage was tied, the apothecary began gathering the broken glass.
“How many people could that medicine have helped?” the girl asked.
“Perhaps five,” said the old man.
The girl’s face went pale.
“Then I have harmed five people.”
The apothecary set down the broom.
“No,” he said. “You broke one bottle.”
“But the medicine is gone.”
“Yes.”
“And you are not angry?”
“I am troubled by the loss. That is not the same as being angry with you.”
The girl looked at the green stain on the floor.
“Why did you tend to me before saving what was left?”
The apothecary touched the knot of the bandage to make certain it held.
“Because medicine is kept for the sake of life,” he said. “Life is not kept for the sake of medicine.”
Care is measured by what we protect first.
