I’ve been thinking about the word “repair” and what it means in two contexts: the sleeve cuff and the relationship.
The sleeve cuff is repaired. It has a visible addition, a slightly different thread, a continued motif that acknowledges the interruption. If you look at the cuff now, you can see the original work and you can see where the new work begins. They are not the same, but they belong to the same object.
I think about the relationship the same way. The relationship between me and my mother, between me and Elise, is not what it was before April. It is not better or worse in every dimension — it is different in specific ways. There are things I said that I didn’t say before. There are things they did that I now know they are capable of doing. That information is in the fabric of the relationship now, visible if you look.
“Repair” doesn’t mean invisible. It means stabilized and continued. It means the object still exists and still works. It means you can hold it up to the light and see it clearly, including the place where it broke.
I have the dress in an acid-free box in my apartment. The home repair has been done for months. The room is fine. There is no reason to store it elsewhere, and I have no intention of doing so.
The box is on my shelf. I don’t open it often. Once in a while I do, for no particular reason — just to look. To see the columns of silk and the embroidered cuffs, the left one as it was, the right one as it is now.