There are no unintended consequences, no butterfly effect. Each act of
destruction is discrete, because each snow globe is discrete. Assuming
no increase in the value of n — a dangerous assumption — the
smashing of any one snow globe increases the probability of any
remaining snow globe being smashed by the value of 1/(n-1) – 1/n.
But it is never like that.
It is always love, even as the hammer comes down, even as he fetches
the hammer. It is love as he wipes up the viscous fluid and the broken
crystal and the figurines, the peas in the pod, the bean in the
cake. He doesn’t understand the why the urge to collect ends in
destruction, but he knows both come from the same place.
It isn’t always this way. That’s why he knows this is best. Once he
dropped one off the bridge. It sunk, which was both heart-rending and
anti-climactic. A plastic globe would float, and that would be
worse. Another went into the fire. He had hated the black smoke and
the passivity of waiting, watching for the end. He prefers the ritual
of cleaning. It is a way to say goodbye, a chance to feel the fluid,
which would otherwise be forever confined within.
He understands all of this, but is still tempted by the microwave.