The Scarf of Remnants
Mother was never idle. Whenever she had a spare moment, she would pick up her knitting needles. As she knitted, it was as if she were speaking to herself, to Grandmother, to the past. It had always been this way. She knitted everything she thought might suit my sister and mehats, cardigans, vests, scarves, half-shawls, berets. Sometimes the results were stylish, other times homely and plain, but every stitch was woven with love. Her own motherour grandmotherhad done the same.
Times were harder then. If you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it. Grandmother could do it all. She repurposed old clothes, took patterns from *The Countrywoman*, dreamed up designs of her own. If she saw a new dress on the telly, shed rush for a pencil to sketch notes and patterns. A true jack-of-all-trades.
From her, Mother inherited both the craft and the quiet strength of a woman who knew how to create warmth. When Grandmother passed, Mother took up the mantle without a wordsettling at the sewing machine, pulling out her needles But knitting was her true love. Evenings by the lamplight, the house smelled of wool, fruit tea, and baked apples.
We didnt appreciate it then. As children, we wore her knits without complaintjust to keep her from feeling sad. Later, when we left for university, we packed a few knitted things «for show.» It all seemed old-fashioned, «not like what everyone else wore.»
***
After Mother was gone, my sister and I stayed in her house for a few more days. We sorted through everythingthe wardrobes, the drawers, the boxes Nearly all of it was given away: clothes, dishes, even that crate of yarn tucked beneath the bed. Aunt Mary, the neighbour, was delighted. «Itll all come in handy, girls, dont you worry.»
And we didnt. Not then. We didnt yet understand that with those skeins of yarn, wed given away an entire worldMothers world, familiar and gentle.
***
A week later, I returned home. My heart felt hollow, my hands restless. Then I rememberedthe scarf. That colourful, fluffy, slightly silly one Mother had knitted for me the year before. I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and draped it around my shouldersand suddenly, warmth. As if shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memory, but truly. I wept.
It was the only thing left, made by her hands. Not beautifulalive. Every colour held a story:
Bluean old cardigan of hers, worn when I was in Year One.
Yellowmy jumper, the one I wore for my first school play.
Pinkmy sisters vest, a birthday gift.
Greena scrap from Grandmothers worn shawl.
Sky bluejust a favourite thread of Mothers, no particular tale, but carrying her warmth in every loop.
Each shade was like an evening, a fleeting moment shed woven into that scarf. It became a worldher world, our world, stitched from memory and care and love.
***
Now I knit too. On late evenings, when the house is quiet, I take up the needles and catch myself moving my hands just as she did. My daughter laughs. «Mum, who are you knitting for? No one wears this stuff anymore. Youve got to keep upnew clothes, new furniture, a fresh hairstyle Youre so old-fashioned!»
I smile. In her voice, I hear my own, young and long ago. And I thinknothing really changes. People just speak and live in the language of their time.
But the thread remains the same.
From one pair of hands to another. From one heart to the next.
And perhaps, as long as theres even one woman who takes up her needles in the evening, the warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
