When I was in high school, my grandmother gave me a pair of Wrangler jeans and a denim jacket.
The fabric was surprisingly soft and smooth for denim.
I loved the way it felt against my skin.
And somehow, they looked incredibly stylish to me.
They reminded me of the street snapshots I used to see in fashion magazines from overseas.
I imagined a stylish woman casually wearing them somewhere in Europe or America.
Loose straight-leg jeans.
A simple white T-shirt.
And then I thought — ah, my grandmother would probably tie a beautiful scarf around her neck.
She would throw the denim jacket lightly over her shoulders and walk out the door.
Back then, I would look at those clothes and let my imagination wander like that.
Before I realized it, I had been wearing them for nearly fifteen years.
I’m 32 now, so they’ve been with me for a very long time.
I don’t know exactly when my grandmother bought them.
But I imagine it was sometime after she became a nurse and started traveling overseas on company trips.
If that’s true, maybe she bought them around the age I am now.
Or perhaps in her forties.
When I think about that, these jeans feel filled with such a long stretch of time.
Places I’ve never seen.
Air I’ve never breathed.
Memories I’ll never fully know.
I feel like these clothes quietly absorbed all of those things.
Originally, there were actually two pairs of jeans.
One grayish pair, and the blue pair I still have now.
The gray pair was my favorite, and I wore them constantly.
But one day, the fabric wore thin and tore between the legs.
At the time, I wasn’t good at sewing, and repairing them never even crossed my mind.
Something I loved suddenly became unwearable.
But I couldn’t throw them away either.
Every time they entered my sight, I felt strangely lost, unsure what to do.
Then, during a move, I threw them away impulsively.
At first, I felt relieved.
The lingering frustration disappeared for a moment.
But afterward, I regretted it for a very long time.
That was when I realized they hadn’t been just clothes.
It felt like I had casually thrown away something truly important, and that something inside me had gone missing with them.
After that, I continued wearing the remaining blue jeans and denim jacket often.
The cuffs of the jacket had become worn and frayed, but somehow that never bothered me.
Then eventually, the blue jeans tore in the same way too.
This time, I couldn’t throw them away so easily.
I think it was because I still regretted what I had done before.
Now, those jeans are folded away inside my dresser.
If I can’t repair them myself, I thought maybe I could bring them to someone who can.
But I still haven’t done it yet.
Maybe I’ll repair the torn part and keep wearing them as jeans.
Or maybe I’ll transform them into something else, like a bag.
I just hope they can continue living beside me in some form for a little longer.
When something broke, the old me used to panic and feel completely lost.
But now, I think even if these jeans become old and torn, my attachment to them won’t disappear.
I love them as something far beyond just “things.”
And because of that, I want to treasure the parts that don’t change.
Maybe sometimes that means allowing things to change shape while continuing to keep them close.
These clothes traveled through a long stretch of life before they arrived here with me.
My grandmother is no longer here, but I can still meet her anytime inside my memories.
And if possible, I hope I can stay with these jeans for a very long time too.