**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 just how it always was.
She knitted anything she thought my sister and I might wear: bobble hats, cardigans, vests, scarves, half-shawls, berets. Sometimes it turned out stylish; other times, just homely and simple. But every stitch was knitted with love. Thats how her motherour Granhad done it too.
Back then, times were tougher. If you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or you knitted it. Gran could do anythingshe upcycled old clothes, borrowed patterns from *Womans Weekly*, dreamed up her own designs. Sometimes, if she spotted a new dress on the telly, shed scramble for a pencil, sketching notes and patterns right then and there. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
From her, Mum inherited not just the craft, but that quiet strength of a woman who could spin comfort out of thin air. When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, fishing out her needles But knitting was always her favourite.
Evenings under the lamplight, the house smelling of wool, fruit tea, and baked apples. Of course, we didnt appreciate it at the time. As kids, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for uni, wed pack a knitted thing or two *for show*. It all felt so old-fashioned, *not like what everyone else had*.
***
After Mum was gone, my sister and I stayed in her house a few extra days. We sorted through everythingwardrobes, drawers, boxes Gave most of it away: clothes, dishes, even that crate of yarn tucked under the bed.
Auntie Margot, the neighbour, was delighted. *”Itll all come in handy, lovedont you worry!”*
And we didnt. Not then. We didnt realise we were handing over an entire worldMums world, warm and quiet and ours.
***
A week later, I was back home. My heart felt hollow, my hands restless. Then I remembered*the scarf*. That colourful, fluffy, slightly ridiculous one Mum had knitted me last winter.
I found it folded on the top shelf, draped it over my shouldersand suddenly, it was like shed wrapped her arms around me. Not in a dream, not in memory, but *real*. I cried.
It was the only thing left that her hands had made. Not pretty*alive*. Every colour held a story:
*Blue*her old jumper, worn when I started primary.
*Yellow*my first school play sweater.
*Pink*my sisters birthday waistcoat.
*Green*a scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
*Sky-blue*just Mums favourite thread, no particular tale, but warm with her touch in every loop.
Each shade was an evening, a tiny moment shed knit into that scarf. It was a whole world*her* world, *our* world, woven from memories and care and love.
***
Now *I* knit. Sometimes late at night, when the house is quiet, I catch myself moving the needles *exactly* as she did.
My daughter giggles. *”Mum, who even wears this stuff anymore? Youve got to move onnew clothes, new furniture, new hairstyles Youre so old-school!”*
I smile. Hear my own teenage voice in hers.
Some things never change. 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, picking up her knitting needles as the evening settles inwell, I reckon the warmth wont ever fade. It just takes new shapes.
