Whenever I mend clothes or sew a frayed stitch, I always use a contrasting thread. "I fixed this" it says. I made it whole again. Red on purple. Green on pink. Yellow on black. "This was never perfect, the machine's hand was only ever so true." Uneven, wandering, close enough.
"No less perfect now than it ever was". The fabric will wear away eventually, and there won't be enough to sew back. Maybe a patch, maybe another year. Maybe a decade left in it, if the nylon holds, if the cotton stays, if the wool weathers on. Another stitch, another hole whole, again.
But for now there's a button again. For now my pocket won't drop out what I want to keep. Not everyone can see I tried, but I can. I always can. Every time I wear it. Little scars of time and life taking toll, of stabbing at the sea, of standing on the shifting sands. Always trying, always pushing back, shoring up, surviving. We all know it'll end, can't ship of Theseus your way to immortality when there's no stringers left to nail a fresh board to.
Trying is the first step towards failure, but I'm more than made peace with that notion. Trying isn't a middle finger to inevitability, it's just being alive. And, like, I like that living thing. Spitefully striving forward in stubborn joy, one stitch after another, fully aware of the futility, but the weight's not that heavy these days. I think some lilac thread will look nice on navy heather.
