Six pieces I have worn for ten years

I used to think a good wardrobe was one that always felt new. Now I think it is one that remembers you. The best pieces in mine have softened at the elbows, learned the shape of my shoulders, and followed me through more versions of myself than I can count.

There is a white shirt I bought before my first long summer in Italy. I chose it two sizes too large, partly by accident. It has been a beach cover-up, a dinner shirt, a layer on cold flights, and once, folded under a sleeping child’s head. It is more beautiful now than the day I bought it.

My grandmother’s gold chain is the opposite. It asks for no care and goes with everything. I wear it because it makes an ordinary morning feel connected to something longer. That, to me, is what personal style can do: make time visible without making a performance of it.

I still love clothes. I simply want fewer of them to become strangers. I mend what can be mended, re-weave the cashmere, and wait before replacing something. The waiting is useful. It leaves room to discover whether I miss the object or only the little spark of buying it.