**The Scarf from Scraps**
Mum was never idle. The moment she had a spare minute, shed pick up her knitting needles. As she knitted, it was like she was talkingto herself, to Nan, to the past. Thats how it always was. She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might need: hats, jumpers, cardigans, scarves, berets. Sometimes it was stylish; other times, just simple and homely. But in every stitch, there was love. Her own motherour Nanhad done the same. Back then, times were harder. If you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it.
Nan could do anything. Shed alter old clothes, take patterns from *Womans Weekly*, or invent her own. Sometimes, spotting a dress on the telly, shed grab a pencil and sketch it out. A proper jack-of-all-trades, she was. Mum inherited that skill from herand the quiet strength of a woman who could weave comfort out of nothing.
When Nan 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 smelling of wool, Earl Grey tea, and baked apples.
We didnt appreciate it, of course. As kids, we wore her knits without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for university, we packed a few pieces for show. It all felt old-fashioned, “not like what everyone else wore.”
***
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 away: clothes, crockery, even that crate of yarn tucked under the bed. Aunt Margaret, the neighbour, was delighted. “Itll all come in handy, girls. Dont fret.”
And we didnt. Not then. We didnt realise wed handed over an entire worldMums world, warm and familiar.
***
A week later, I was back home. My heart felt hollow; my hands didnt know what to do. Then I rememberedthe scarf. That silly, colourful, fluffy one Mum had knitted for me last winter. I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and draped it over my shoulders. Suddenly, I was warm. Like shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memoryreally, truly. I cried.
It was the only thing left that her hands had made. Not prettyalive. Every colour told a story:
*Blue*her old jumper, worn 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 Nans shawl.
*Sky blue*just Mums favourite yarn, no story, but her warmth lingered in every loop.
Each shade was an evening, a tiny moment shed stitched into this scarf. It became a whole worldher 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 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-fashioned!”
I smile. I hear my own young voice in hers.
Nothing really changes. People just speak and live in the language of their time. But the thread stays the samepassed from hand to hand, heart to heart.
And as long as theres one woman, somewhere, picking up her needles in the evening, the warmth wont fade. It just takes new shapes.
