sharon rose

my great-grandfather spent the 1930's collecting sharon rose depression glass. it's baby pink: rose patterned. duh.

when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.

i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.

for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.

for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.

finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.

i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.