The Scarf of Memories
Mum was never one to sit idle.
Whenever she had a spare moment, 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 this way.
She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might wearhats, jumpers, cardigans, scarves, berets. Sometimes they turned out stylish, other times homely and plain, but every stitch was made with love. Her own mother, our Gran, had done the same. Back then, times were harderif you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it.
Gran could do anything. She repurposed old clothes, borrowed patterns from *Womans Weekly*, improvised her own designs, and if she spotted a dress on the telly, shed grab a pencil to sketch it out. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited not just her skills but that quiet strengththe kind that turns a house into a home. When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, sorting through the knitting needles. But knitting was her true love.
Evenings by the lamp, the house smelled of wool, Earl Grey tea, and baked apples.
We never really appreciated it. As kids, we wore her creations without complaintjust to avoid upsetting her. Later, when we left for uni, wed pack a knitted piece or two «for show.» It all felt old-fashioned, «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 was given away: clothes, dishes, even the basket of yarn tucked under the bed.
Auntie Mary, the neighbour, beamed. «Itll all come in handy, girlsdont worry.»
And we didnt. Not then. We didnt realise that with those skeins of yarn, wed given away an entire worldhers, familiar, gentle.
***
A week later, I returned to my own home. My heart felt hollow, my hands restless. Then I rememberedthe scarf. That colourful, slightly silly, fluffy one Mum had made me last winter.
I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and wrapped it around my shoulders. Suddenly, warmth spread through meas though shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memory, but real. I cried.
It was the only thing left that her hands had made. Not beautifulalive.
Every colour held a story:
*Blue*her old jumper, worn when I was in Year 1.
*Yellow*my first school plays sweater.
*Pink*my sisters birthday cardigan.
*Green*a scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
*Sky blue*just Mums favourite yarn, no particular tale, but threaded through with her warmth.
Each shade was an evening, a fleeting moment shed woven into this scarf. It became a whole worldher world, our world, stitched from memories, care, 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 even wears this stuff anymore? Youve got to keep upnew clothes, new furniture, new hairstyles. Youre so old-school!»
I smile. In her voice, I hear my ownyounger, impatient.
Some things never change. People just speak and live in the language of their time.
But the thread stays the same.
Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres at least one woman who picks up her knitting needles at nightthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
