**The Scarf of Scraps**
Mum was never idle.
Whenever she had a spare moment, shed pick up her knitting needles.
As she knitted, it was as if she were talking to herself, to Gran, to the past.
Thats how it always was.
She knitted everything she thought would suit me and my sisterhats, jumpers, cardigans, scarves, shawls, berets.
Sometimes they turned out stylish, other times just homely and simple, but every stitch was filled with love.
Her own motherour Granhad done the same.
Back then, times were harderif you wanted something special, you had to sew or knit it yourself.
Gran could do anything. She repurposed old clothes, took patterns from *Womans Weekly*, dreamed up her own designs, and if she saw a new dress on the telly, shed grab a pencil straightawaysketching notes, drafting patterns.
A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited that craft from her, along with the quiet strength of a woman who could weave warmth into the world.
When Gran passed, Mum took up the mantle without a wordsettling at the sewing machine, pulling out her needles
But most of all, she loved to knit.
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 handmade things “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 a few more days.
We sorted through everythingthe wardrobes, the drawers, the boxes
Nearly all of it was given awaythe clothes, the dishes, even that crate of yarn under the bed.
Aunt Maggie, the neighbour, was delighted.
“All good stuff, girlsdont you worry.”
And we didnt.
Not then.
We didnt realise we were giving away an entire worldhers, ours, quiet and full of love.
A week later, I went home.
My heart was hollow, my hands restless.
Then I rememberedthe scarf.
That one, multicoloured, fluffy, a bit silly, the one Mum had knitted for me last winter.
I found it on the top shelf and wrapped it around my shouldersand suddenly, I was warm.
As if shed hugged me.
Not in a dream, not in memoryfor real.
I cried.
It was the only thing left made by her hands.
Not prettyalive.
Every colour held a story:
The bluean old jumper of hers, worn when I started year one.
The yellowmy first school play sweater.
The pinkmy sisters birthday cardigan.
The greena scrap from Grans ancient shawl.
The light bluejust Mums favourite yarn, no particular tale, but warmed by her touch in every loop.
Each shade was like an evening, a tiny moment shed stitched into that scarf.
It became a whole worldhers, ours, woven from memory, care, and love.
Now I knit too.
Late at night, when the house is quiet, 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? Time to updateclothes, furniture, hairstyles Youre so old-fashioned!”
I smile.
Hear my own younger voice in hers.
And I thinknothing really changes.
People just 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 one woman, somewhere, reaching for her knitting needles at nightthe warmth wont fade.
It just takes new shapes.
