**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 chattingto herself, to her own mother, to the past. Thats just how it had always been.
She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might needhats, cardigans, vests, scarves, berets. Sometimes they turned out stylish, sometimes just plain cosy, but every stitch was made 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. Shed repurpose old clothes, borrow patterns from *Womans Weekly*, improvise her own designs, or even sketch out a dress shed spotted on the telly. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited that skilland the quiet strength of a woman who knew how to make a home feel warm. When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, digging out the knitting needles though knitting was always her favourite.
Evenings under the lamp, the house would smell of wool, Earl Grey tea, and baked apples.
We didnt appreciate it, of course. As kids, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for university, wed stuff a knitted jumper into our bags «just in case.» It all seemed so old-fashioned, «not like what everyone else wore.»
***
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 went: clothes, dishes, even the box of yarn balls tucked under the bed.
Auntie Maggie, the neighbour, was delighted. *»Itll all come in handy, girlsdont you worry!»* And we didnt. Not then.
We didnt realise we were giving away an entire worldhers, familiar, gentle.
***
A week later, I was back in my own home. Empty-hearted, restless. Then I rememberedthe scarf.
That ridiculous, fluffy, multicoloured one Mum had knitted for me last winter. I found it folded on the top shelf, wrapped it around my shouldersand suddenly, I was warm.
Like shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memoryproperly.
I cried.
It was the only thing left, made by her hands. Not pretty*alive*. Every colour had its story:
*Blue*her old jumper, worn when I started Year 1.
*Yellow*my childhood sweater, debut on the school stage.
*Pink*my sisters birthday vest.
*Green*a scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
*Sky-blue*just Mums favourite yarn, no particular tale, but every loop held her warmth.
Each shade was an evening, a quiet moment shed stitched into that scarf. It was a whole world*her* world, *our* world, woven from memory and care.
***
Now I knit too.
Late at night, when the house is quiet, I catch myself moving the needles *just* like 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-fashioned!»*
I smile. I hear my own teenage voice in hers.
Some things never change.
People speak the language of their time. But the thread? Its the same one.
Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres one woman, somewhere, picking up her knitting needles at duskthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
