**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 whispering to herself, to Gran, 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 they turned out stylish; other times, just simple and homelybut every stitch was filled with love.
Her own mother, our Gran, had done the same.
Life was harder back then: if you wanted something special, you had to sew or knit it yourself.
Gran could do anything. Shed remake old clothes, take patterns from *Womans Weekly*, or sketch out designs after catching a glimpse of a dress on the telly. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited that craft from heralong with the quiet strength of a woman who could weave comfort from nothing.
When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, pulling out her needles
But knitting was her true love.
Evenings by the lamp, the house smelling of wool, Earl Grey tea, and baked apples.
We never appreciated it, of course.
As children, we wore her creations without complaintjust to avoid upsetting her.
Later, when we left for university, wed pack a knitted piece or two just for show.
It all seemed so old-fashioned, so *not like what everyone else had*.
***
After Mum passed, my sister and I stayed in her house a few more days.
We sorted through everything: wardrobes, drawers, boxes
Nearly all of it was given awayclothes, dishes, even that box of yarn tucked under the bed.
Aunt Maggie, our neighbour, was delighted.
*”Itll all come in handy, girlsdont you worry!”*
And we didnt.
Not then.
We didnt yet realise that with those skeins, wed given away an entire worldhers, ours, quiet and familiar.
***
A week later, I returned 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 wrapped it around my shouldersand suddenly, I was warm.
As if shed hugged me.
Not in a dream, not in memorybut truly.
I cried.
It was the only thing left made by her hands.
Not beautiful*alive*.
Every colour held a story:
*Blue*her old jumper from my first year at school.
*Yellow*the sweater I wore for my first school play.
*Pink*the cardigan shed made for my sisters birthday.
*Green*a scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
*Pale blue*just a thread Mum loved, with no particular tale, but warm with her touch in every loop.
Each shade was an evening, a moment shed stitched into this scarf.
It became a worldher world, our world, woven from memories, care, and love.
***
Now I knit too.
Late at night, when the house is still, 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 upnew clothes, new furniture, new hairstyles! Youre so old-fashioned!”*
I smile.
Hear my own younger voice in hers.
Nothing really changes.
People just speak the language of their time.
But the thread? Its the same.
Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres one woman somewhere, lifting her needles in the evening quietthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
