Memories are a poetic version of fingerprints. No two people share the same exact kind. You can describe in great detail a memory to another person, but the image you create in their head is only an abstracted, dreamlike version of the real event. Similarly, when you relive your own experiences and memories, you recreate reality. You can think back to a moment, but you can never know what it was really like once that moment ends.
This is a garment that makes this intangible experience physical. Objects that hold the weight of these memories and that bring up a vivid instant to one person but have no meaning to another are collected and placed in pockets that are closed up and attached to a specific person’s uniform. Here are my memories, inaccessible to myself and to everyone else. I know what lies in each envelope, know it’s significance, but all I have left of the objects are my memories of them. I can describe each object to someone else, and they can have a vague idea of what if might look like, but cannot truly know. And so, the physical reminders of memories become memories themselves.