**The Scarf of Scraps**
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 as if she were talking to herself, to Gran, to the past.
It had always been that way.
She knitted everything she thought would suit me and my sisterhats, jumpers, cardigans, scarves, shawls, berets.
Sometimes they turned out stylish, other times simple and homely, but every stitch was woven with love.
Her own motherour Granhad done the same.
Back then, times were harder: if you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it.
Gran could do anything. She repurposed old clothes, took patterns from *Womans Weekly*, dreamed up designs of her own, and sometimes, if she spotted a new dress on the telly, shed grab a pencil straightawaysketching notes, drafting patterns.
A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited that craft from her, along with the quiet strength of a woman who knew how to make a home cosy.
When Gran passed, Mum silently took up the mantledusting off the sewing machine, reaching for the knitting needles
But knitting was what she loved most.
Evenings under the lamplight, the house smelling of wool, fruit tea, and baked apples.
We didnt appreciate it then, of course.
As children, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy.
Later, when we left for university, wed pack a knitted piece or two just for show.
It all felt old-fashioned, *not like what everyone else had*.
***
When Mum was gone, my sister and I stayed in her house a few more days.
We sorted through everythingcupboards, drawers, boxes
Almost all of it we gave awayclothes, crockery, even the basket of yarn tucked under the bed.
Auntie Margaret, the neighbour, beamed:
*»Itll all come in handy, girls, dont you worry.»*
And we didnt.
Not then.
We didnt yet realise wed given away an entire worldMums world, familiar and gentle.
***
A week later, I went back home.
My heart felt hollow; my hands didnt know what to do.
Then I rememberedthe scarf.
That bright, 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 memoryfor real.
I cried.
It was the only thing left that her hands had made.
Not prettyalive.
Every colour held a story:
*Blue*an old jumper of hers shed worn when I was in Year 1.
*Yellow*the sweater Id worn for my first school play.
*Pink*my sisters cardigan, a birthday gift.
*Green*a scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
*Pale blue*just Mums favourite yarn, no particular tale, but warming every stitch with her touch.
Each shade was like a separate evening, a tiny moment shed stitched into that scarf.
It became a world unto itselfher world, our world, woven from memories, care, and love.
***
Now I knit too.
Sometimes late at night, when the house is quiet, I take up the needles and catch myself moving my hands just like she did.
My daughter laughs:
*»Mum, whos going to wear all this? Nobody does this stuff anymore. Youve got to keep upnew clothes, new furniture, new style Youre so old-fashioned!»*
I smile.
I hear my own younger voice in hers.
And I think: nothing really changes.
People just speak and live in the language of their time.
But the yarn stays the same.
Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres one woman left who picks up her knitting needles in the eveningthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
