**Scraps of Love**
Mum was never idle. The moment she had a spare minute, shed pick up her knitting needles. As she knitted, it was as if she were talkingto herself, to Grandma, to the past. It had always been this way.
She knitted everything she thought my sister and I might need: hats, jumpers, vests, scarves, half-shawls, berets. Sometimes they turned out stylish, other times just plain and homelybut every stitch was made with love. Her own mother, our Grandma, had done the same. Back then, times were harder: if you wanted something special, you either sewed it yourself or knitted it.
Grandma could do anything. She repurposed old clothes, borrowed patterns from *Womans Weekly*, improvised her own designs, and if she saw a new dress on the telly, shed grab a pencil and sketch it out straight away. A proper jack-of-all-trades.
Mum inherited not just the craft from her but also that quiet strength of a woman who could weave warmth into the everyday. When Grandma passed, Mum took up the mantle without a worddusting off the sewing machine, reaching for the needles though knitting was always her favourite.
Evenings under the lamplight, the house smelled of wool, Earl Grey, and baked apples. We didnt appreciate it then. As children, we wore her creations without complaintjust to keep her happy. Later, when we left for university, wed take a knitted piece or two just for show. Back then, it all felt old-fashioned, “not like what everyone else had.”
***
After Mum was gone, my sister and I stayed in her house a few more days. We sorted through everythingthe cupboards, the drawers, the boxes Nearly all of it was given away: clothes, dishes, even that crate 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 of yarn, wed given away an entire worldMums world, soft and familiar.
***
A week later, I returned home. My heart was hollow, my hands restless. 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 shouldersand suddenly, I was warm. As if shed hugged me. Not in a dream, not in memory, but truly. I wept.
It was the only thing left made by her hands. Not beautifulalive. Every colour held a story:
*Blue*her old jumper, the one she wore when I started primary school.
*Yellow*my sweater, worn for my first school play.
*Pink*my sisters birthday cardigan.
*Green*a scrap from Grandmas ancient shawl.
*Sky blue*just a favourite thread of Mums, no particular memory, but her warmth lingered in every loop.
Each shade was like an evening, a tiny moment shed tucked into this scarf. It had become a whole worldher world, our world, stitched from memories, care, and love.
***
Now I knit too. Late at night, when the house is quiet, I catch myself moving my hands exactly as she did.
My daughter laughs. *”Mum, whos going to wear all this? No one does handmade anymore. Youve got to keep upnew clothes, new furniture, a fresh haircut Youre so old-fashioned!”*
I smile. I hear my own younger voice in hers.
Nothing really changes. People just speak the language of their time.
But the thread remains the same. Hand to hand. Heart to heart.
And as long as theres at least one woman who picks up her needles in the evening, the warmth wont fade. It just takes new shapes.
