If I have one pet peeve as a reseller of old things, it’s that some people expect a 100-year-old item to be in perfect condition. As an e-commerce reseller, it’s up to me to be as transparent as possible about the condition of the items I’m selling— cracks, chips and all. I take lots of pictures, including close-ups of any flaws and I describe as accurately as possible the spots, hairline cracks, crazing, foxing, or staining it has. I truly adhere to the “what you see is what you get,” philosophy.

But, some people only see what they want to see. And, so they want to see an antique or vintage piece in pristine shape. They want it to be like the perfect reproductions at Target, or Hobby Lobby, or Home Goods. And, back it comes to me for a full refund. I apologize to the item for having to withstand the scrutiny of someone who doesn’t see what I see.

I see an item that has miraculously made it through a life, longer than mine, still intact. I see it lovingly chosen by a buyer for their own home or as a present for someone special. Maybe it was a gift given to them that they proudly displayed in a cabinet or the center of the table. Maybe one day in a nervous moment when they were trying to impress someone they knocked the object off the table and it fell. There’s the little chip. The object gave that person joy until that person was gone and on it went to the next person. Maybe that person loved the first owner so much that every time they glanced at the object they remembered a time now lost forever. Maybe it got put in the dishwasher by mistake. There’s the fading. And the object lived with that person until they were gone and then nobody wanted that chipped and faded object. It only takes a few generations to forget.

I spied the object among the other discarded objects on the thrift shop shelf. Way in the back, behind the used plastic water bottles, the unwanted bowls and dishes tightly wrapped with clear plastic packing tape, the frayed and bent Christmas decorations, the resin figurines of rabbits with flowers, and the half-used candles, there it sat. I saw its milky white porcelain. I saw the delicate hand-painted flowers. I recognized it and it recognized me.

I held it up to my chipped, cracked, and crazed face. I lightly touched it’s flaws, caressing it as only someone who’s also earned imperfections can. Because we did earn them. We both were still here to lay claim to the struggles, the changes, the disappointments, the celebrations, that come with living a long life. We both had history. And, in that moment, I whispered to that worn and lovely object, “You don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”