The closest thing I have to a family heirloom is a black miniskirt. It’s perfect—above the knee but not too short. The pleating and A-line shape give it a modish look without being too era specific. My mother bought it for herself sometime in the 1970s. She passed it along to a younger cousin. My older sister had it next, before I appropriated it in my teens. The label reads “Gaytown Sportswear, Toronto.”
Though it hasn’t fit me for years, the skirt still hangs in my closet in honour of its years of service. It shares space with less worthy pieces: a green sweater that’s gone through one winter but is already starting to pill, a blue shirt that wrinkles if you so much as look at it.
