**The Scarf of Scraps**
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 whispering to herself, to Gran, to the past. It was always this way.
She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might needhats, cardigans, vests, scarves, shawls, berets. Sometimes they turned out stylish; other times, just homely and simple. But in every stitch, there was love.
Gran had done the same. Back then, times were harderif you wanted something special, you made it yourself. Gran could do anything. She repurposed old clothes, borrowed patterns from *Womans Weekly*, invented her own designs. If she saw a dress she liked on the telly, shed grab a pencil and sketch it straight away. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited that craft from her, along with the quiet strength of a woman who could weave warmth into life. When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, fetching her needles. But knitting was her favourite.
Evenings under the lamplight, the house smelled of wool, apple crumble, and Earl Grey tea. Of course, we didnt appreciate it then. As children, we wore her knits without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for uni, we packed a few bits «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 for a few more days. We sorted through everythingwardrobes, drawers, boxes. Nearly all of it was given awayher clothes, the crockery, even that box of yarn tucked under the sofa.
Auntie Mary, our neighbour, was delighted. *»Itll all come in handy, love. Dont you worry.»*
And we didnt. Not then. We didnt yet realise that with those skeins of wool, wed given away an entire worldMums world, soft and familiar.
***
A week later, I went home. My heart felt hollow, my hands restless. Then I rememberedthe scarf. That ridiculous, colourful, fluffy one Mum had knitted me last winter.
I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and wrapped it around my shoulders. And suddenly, I was warm. As if shed hugged menot in a dream, not in memory, but for real. I cried.
It was the only thing left that her hands had made. Not pretty*alive*. Every colour told a story:
*Blue*her old jumper, the one she wore when I started primary school.
*Yellow*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 memory, but her warmth lived in every loop.
Each shade was like an evening, a tiny moment shed stitched into this scarf. It became a whole world*her* world, *our* world, woven from memory, 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, who even wears this stuff anymore? Youve got to keep upfurniture, clothes, hairstyles Youre so old-fashioned!»*
I smile. I hear my own teenage voice in hers. And I thinknothing really changes. People just speak and live in the language of their time.
But the thread remains the same. Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres at least one woman who picks up her knitting needles in the evening, the warmth wont fade. It just takes new shapes.
