A tailor sees troubled times. She sees them in the patches on a garment, the pieces sewn together when coin is tight to save and reuse long past its time. A tailor sees your history, old and new, in the frays and stains on your trousers and cloak, the soil of foreign lands or the toil in a homely house. A tailor sees the joyous news, in the glow in your skin that balances against the color of your dress in a way it didn’t before, how it grows ever so slightly taut as you swell. A tailor sees grief in the shape of your face, in the pallor and the cloth that drapes your form where it once clung to your arms and shoulders, closely fitted, accentuating their movement. A tailor sees a blooming heart in the way your collar stretches as you stand tall, as if basking in an ever-radiant warmth.
A tailor can see what you try to hide: the old scar, the new bruise, the mark of passion, the look of shame, exhilaration, timidity, or peace. There are no lies there. A tailor is your confidant. She stitches together an image for you, that you may weave the thread of fate to the pattern of your choosing. Shed the old, don the new, or bring the past with you. But what others may not see, a tailor sees.
