Stitched in time and memory, old clothes offer comfortable proof that what goes around comes around, in the best possible way.
“Nice shirt! I used to own that,” says my 14-year-old son proudly to my three-year-old. His slightly faded 10-year-old Mickey Mouse shirt has been on a journey from his own younger shoulders though several homes before coming back to embrace his little brother’s growing frame.
That’s the way it seems we change our wardrobe around here, in an economy of cotton and wool, of care and kindness, between family and friends.
A change in clothing has accompanied every phase of my life, as it has for my children. Nappies were their welcome-pants to life, but are mercifully no more. Now, I take deliveries of clothing from my sister and others, some which we parted from and which have returned.
These are the prodigal ones, and always bring a smile. I’ll yell “Remember when you wore this! And look at you now!” His feet are already size 11. He looks me direct at eye level, and the tiny jersey knitted by my mother that I’m holding is a testament of his journey.
Yesterday saw a large bag arrive from a friend I hadn’t received anything from before. It’s our turn of the wheel, it seems, and what goes around comes around. What a great demonstration of karma! These ‘new’ ones are all in excellent shape, and if they do not all adorn the little guy, will find their way into the neighbourhood.
I have seen many cold children on the streets. I’ve raided every corner of my children’s cupboards, with their consent, to help the goosebumps disappear. Homeless people keep asking me for shoes. They get them too. It frees me up, giving them away.
The young boy whose former clothing came our way yesterday understands, according to his mother, that there needs to be space for the new. It’s not easy letting go, but one has to. Otherwise I get stuck, static and frustrated.
But not all old things can go onto the streets, not just yet, although one day they will have to. For now, I cherish my old skins. I realise that my cupboard is a museum of old personalities I used to be – there, a loved leather jacket from student days, there, a pink polyester shirt with a burn mark on the collar from times when my circle of friends was a little more animated than they are now.
Some hold memories so deeply stitched – a shirt of my departed father’s, for example – that they will never be tossed, but hang there as fabrics to drape myself in when I need to, as I grow and change continuously through life. But two grey suits? Really? One has to go to the charity shop, now.
It’s quite simple. Changing clothes can change you. Some days demand another outfit in order to effect a change in mood, to shift the meaning I might see or fail to see in myself. My go-to shirt in winter is bright orange, whose label was once signed by someone fairly famous, whose signature too has faded.
The shirt is like a bright sun, and acts like a gift to anyone who sees it. It’s unusual for me to wear it, because most days I want to spend in the shade, not stand out, and fade into the mix.
My clothes say much about me, and how I want to be. Because I have limited means, and no penchant for shopping, I usually wear them until they break. Completely and sometimes embarrassingly.
Some time ago I decreed to not buy a single thread, not even a pair of undies, for a year, and succeeded. I realise I have most of the clothes I will ever need, except perhaps a decent rain jacket. Things are increasingly expensive.
Sometimes I see my brother-in-law wearing an old shirt of mine, with grace and pride. One day my cupboards will be cleared. You cannot take anything with you, at the end.
I re-read Pablo Neruda’s ‘Ode to my Suit’ and find myself smiling. While the wheel keeps on turning, I’ll still be wearing old trousers and possibly a treasured second-hand shirt, which, one day, might have a little drool on it, just for decoration.
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