Letters
On mending, and keeping a thing alive.
There is a particular kind of love that only shows up after the first tear — a hem that comes loose at a wedding, a cuff worn soft and thin from a thousand cups of coffee. The temptation is to fold the thing away, or worse, to replace it. But the older we get, the more we believe the opposite: the piece you mend is the piece you keep.
Our grandmothers knew this. They darned over a wooden egg and turned collars when they frayed — not only because thread was dear, but because a well-made thing deserved a second life, and a third. A visible stitch was never something to hide. It was a small record of having been loved.
We make clothes with that future already built in. Block-printed by hand, sewn in small batches, cut a little generously so they can be let out, taken in, passed down. They are made to be worn often — which means they are made, eventually, to be mended.
So keep the needle and the good scissors close. Learn the slip stitch. Let the repair show. A piece worn often and mended with care doesn’t become less yours. It becomes more.
Made to be handed down.
