**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 like she was chattingto herself, to Gran, to the past.
Thats how it had always been.
She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might need: bobble hats, cardigans, waistcoats, scarves, half-shawls, berets.
Sometimes it was stylish; other times, just homely and simple. But every stitch was filled with love.
Her own motherour Granhad done the same.
Times were tougher back then. If you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it.
Gran could do anything. Shed upcycle old clothes, borrow patterns from *Womans Weekly*, or sketch out her own designs after spotting a dress on the telly. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited that skilland the quiet strength of a woman who could make a house feel like a home.
When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, digging out her needles
But knitting was her favourite.
Evenings under the lamplight, the house smelling of wool, Earl Grey, and baked apples.
We didnt appreciate it, of course.
As kids, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy.
Then, when we left for university, wed pack a knitted piece or two *for show*.
It all felt old-fashioned, *not like what the other girls wore*.
After Mum passed, my sister and I stayed in her house for a few more days.
We sorted through everythingwardrobes, drawers, boxes
Most of it we gave away: clothes, crockery, even the box of yarn tucked under the bed.
Auntie Margaret, the neighbour, was thrilled.
*”Itll all come in handy, love. No sense letting it go to waste.”*
And we werent bothered.
We didnt realise then that with those balls of yarn, wed handed over an entire worldMums world, warm and familiar.
A week later, I went home.
My heart felt hollow, my hands restless.
Then I rememberedthe scarf.
That silly, colourful, slightly lopsided one Mum had knitted me last winter.
I found it on the top shelf of the wardrobe and wrapped it around my shouldersand suddenly, I was warm.
Like shed hugged me.
Not in a dream, not in memory*properly*.
I cried.
It was the only thing of hers Id kept.
Not pretty*alive*.
Every colour had a story:
*Navy*her old jumper, worn when I started primary school.
*Yellow*my sweater for my first school play.
*Pink*a birthday waistcoat for my sister.
*Green*a scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
*Sky blue*just a thread Mum loved, no particular tale, but warm with her touch all the same.
Each shade was an evening, a tiny moment shed knitted into that scarf.
It became a whole world*her* world, *our* world, woven from memories and care.
Now I knit too.
Late at night, when the house is quiet, I catch myself moving the same way 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 just smile.
Nothing really changes.
People 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 somewhere, pulling out her knitting needles at duskthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
