**The Patchwork Scarf**
Mum was never one to sit idle. The moment she had a spare minute, shed pick up her knitting needles. As she knitted, it was like she was talkingto herself, to Gran, to the past. Thats how it always was. She made everything she thought my sister and I might need: hats, cardigans, vests, scarves, half-mufflers, berets. Sometimes they turned out stylish; other times, just plain and homelybut every stitch was made with love.
Thats how her mother, our Gran, did it too. Back then, times were harder. If you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it. Gran could do anythingshed repurpose old clothes, borrow patterns from *Womans Weekly*, or sketch out designs after spotting a dress on the telly. A proper jack-of-all-trades. Mum inherited not just her skill but that quiet strength of a woman who could weave comfort out of nothing.
When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, reaching for her knitting needles. But knitting was her favourite. In the evenings, under the lamplight, the house smelled of wool, Earl Grey tea, and baked apples.
We never appreciated it, of course. As kids, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for university, we packed a knitted piece or two for show. Back then, it all felt so old-fashioned, «not like what everyone else had.»
***
After Mum passed, my sister and I stayed in her house a few more days. We sorted through everythingthe wardrobes, drawers, boxes. Nearly all of it went: clothes, crockery, even the box of yarn stashed under the bed. Aunt Margaret, our neighbour, was thrilled. «Itll all come in handy, girls, dont worry.»
And we didnt worry. Not then. We didnt yet realise that with those skeins of yarn, wed given away an entire worldMums world, warm and familiar.
***
A week later, I went home. My heart felt hollow, my hands restless. Then I rememberedthe scarf. That colourful, fluffy, slightly silly one Mum had knitted for me last winter. I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and draped it over my shouldersand suddenly, I was warm. As if shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memory, but for real. I cried.
It was the only thing left that her hands had made. Not beautifulalive. Every colour had its story:
— **Navy**: Mums old jumper, the one she wore when I started primary school.
— **Gold**: My sweater, the one I wore for my first school play.
— **Pink**: My sisters birthday cardigan.
— **Green**: A scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
— **Sky blue**: Just Mums favourite yarn, no particular talebut her warmth was in every loop.
Each shade was like an evening, a tiny moment shed stitched into that scarf. It became a whole worldher world, our world, woven from memories and love.
***
Now I knit too. Late at night, when the house is quiet, I catch myself moving the needles just as she did. My daughter laughs. «Mum, who wears this stuff anymore? Youve got to keep upnew clothes, new furniture, new hairstyles. Youre so old-fashioned!»
I smile. I hear my own younger voice in hers. Nothing really changes. People just speak the language of their time. But the thread? Its the same. Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres one woman somewhere, picking up her knitting needles at dusk, the warmth wont fade. It just takes new shapes.
**Lesson learned:** Some things arent about fashiontheyre about the hands that made them.
