The Scarf of Remnants
Mum was never one to sit idle.
The moment she had a spare moment, shed pick up her knitting needles. As she knitted, it was as if she were whispering to herself, to Nana, to the past. It had always been this way. She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might needhats, jumpers, cardigans, scarves, half-shawls, berets. Sometimes they turned out stylish, other times homely and plain, but every stitch was woven with love.
Nana had done the same. Back then, times were harderif you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it. Nana could do anything. She repurposed old clothes, took patterns from *Womans Weekly*, dreamed up her own designs, and if she spotted a new dress on the telly, shed dash for a pencil to sketch the seams. A proper jack-of-all-trades, she was. Mum inherited not just her craft but the quiet strength of a woman who could spin comfort from wool and will.
When Nana passed, Mum picked up the mantle without fussdusting off the sewing machine, retrieving the needles but she loved knitting most. Evenings, under the lamplight, the house smelled of wool, Earl Grey, and baked apples.
We never appreciated it. As children, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for uni, we packed a knitted piece or two «for show.» It all felt outdated, «not like what everyone else had.»
***
After Mum was gone, my sister and I stayed in her house a few more days. We sorted through everythingwardrobes, drawers, boxes Nearly all of it we gave away: clothes, dishes, even that box of yarn skeins tucked under the bed. Auntie Margaret, the neighbour, was delighted. «Itll all come in handy, girls, dont fret.»
But we werent fretting. Not then. We didnt yet realise that with those skeins, wed given away an entire worldhers, familiar, quiet.
***
A week later, I returned home. My heart was hollow; my hands didnt know what to do. Then I rememberedthe scarf. That one, multicoloured, fluffy, slightly silly thing Mum had knitted for me last winter. I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and draped it over my shouldersand suddenly, warmth. As if shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memoryfor real. I wept.
It was the only thing left made by her hands. Not beautifulalive. Every colour held a story:
*Navy*her old jumper, worn the year I started primary.
*Mustard*my sweater, the one I wore for my first school play.
*Rose*my sisters birthday cardigan.
*Olive*a scrap from Nanas ancient shawl.
*Sky blue*just a favourite thread of Mums, no particular tale, but her warmth lingered in every loop.
Each shade was its own evening, a tiny moment shed tucked into this scarf. It became a whole worldhers, ours, stitched from memory, care, and love.
***
Now I knit too. Late some nights, when the house settles, I take up the needles and catch myself moving my hands just as she did. My daughter laughs. «Mum, whos going to wear all this? No one does anymore. Youve got to keep upclothes, furniture, even your hair Youre so old-fashioned!»
I smile. In her voice, I hear my own, young and long ago.
Nothing really changes. People just speak and live in the language of their time.
But the thread? That stays the same.
Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres one woman, somewhere, reaching for her needles in the eveningthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
