Yesterday, I found myself rummaging through used suits that were once owned and adorned by men I will never know. My ‘assignment’ was to check for any cosmetic damage to the suit (i.e. holes, tears, missing buttons, stains), and to give it the OK to remain on the rack for another potential owner.
As my hands checked sleeves, buttons and entered various pockets in search of damage, I could not help but think of the stories each of these suit jackets held. I would pull out a wrapper and my mind would freely wander. I imagined whether this man was a salesman or grandfather whose favorite candy was butterscotch. I began to fantasize about the interviews these suits have sat through, the raindrops these suits have felt, the tugs and pulls from children, the stitch of a loosed button or the cold, small shoulders of a woman.
How many stories has this fabric collected?
While I am aware the stitches of these jackets hold no tangible memories, the thought to see it all before me again is enough entertainment. Because I like to believe, in case of an unraveling, stories could be told by a symphony of needle and thread. From the stitched collection, tragedies or comedies would be pulled and played out before me, revealing each story in its most fashionable way (pun completely intended).