Tartan

Archived from Feb 19, 2025:

There’s a hole in my wool skirt. I bought it at a thrift store somewhere on a dark Toronto evening - I had been looking for pieces of a costume and wound up with a new skirt and ring instead. It never fit quite right and I spent months telling myself I would move the buttons so the wrap of the pleats and tartan would sit on my body better. Covered in sweaters and wrapped in belts, I never got around to it and as the fall descends again I sigh as I pull it from the closet and notice two small contributions from the moths in my 100 year old home. The holes aren’t noticeable, the wrap of the skirt means they both layer on top of the wool beneath, obscuring their existence from everyone but me. Another thing wrong, another discomfort, more damage done. I squint in the mirror and decide it’s too late to change before heading to the office - I don’t talk to many people during the day anyway. If it’s mentioned, I’ll simply pretend I haven’t noticed, I will simply pretend it’s all fine, all expected, all in a state that I am accustomed to dealing with. This is about a skirt.

I collect thread and rummage through a collection of supplies gathered and stored over many years, many moves, many iterations of a single life. I hold the skirt and thread up into the light, the differences in colour becoming more apparent by the moment, my ability to move forward put on hold with a single, tiny detail. A video I forgot I put on plays into headphones I’m not wearing and I press pause. Hands on the screen deftly weave and work their way through to process of preservation, of mending and repair. I restart and my determination wanes, mismatched thread hangs off a needle that seems either insubstantial or too substantial to make it’s way through the well loved wool. I think of errors that haven’t happened, I think of contributing to the damage already done and my hands shake more than usual, incapable of contributing to the order and structure of the tartan. I suddenly notice the sun has started to set - a day eaten away by hesitation, the spiritual smog that seeps it’s way into my bones. This is about a skirt.

A small knot to stop the thread pulling through, slow weaving of colours in an amateur approximation of the red and green tartan, I use a needle with an uncertain hand and it meets skin, soul. I weave myself together, slowly, methodically, disparate parts of me uncomfortably being pulled together. New thread fills in what was missing, bridging between pieces of myself that don’t fit comfortably together. I know I have changed - life requires it - but my heart sinks as I realise how thoughtless much of the mending has been. Mismatched thread and poor craftsmanship come into sharp focus as I sit down for once and finally see the way I care for myself. It may be late, but now is better than never to start working on the mending pile.

Thank you, as ever, for being here friends. I’d like to thank Victoria specifically for the prompt of “repair” for this piece. I am trying to write more and having folks send prompts gives me one less excuse as I sit around and wait for inspiration or energy or both to strike. I have been feeling disjointed, disillusioned (gosh, I wonder why) and while I need my corporate job to sustain myself, it does nothing for my soul. I am trying to be better at taking care of my soul, even when it comes in the form of uncomfortable writing and things I may be embarrassed to share. If you were going to submit a prompt, an item, a concept for me to write about, what would it be?