Hey everyone,
I’ve been sitting with something for a while now and feel like I need to share it. I’m not sure if it’s more for me or for anyone else who might find some resonance in my words, but here goes.
The catalyst for this revelation was, of all things, a threadbare scarf. It was tucked away in an old trunk in my attic, one that hadn’t been opened in years. I was looking for something else entirely when I stumbled across it. This scarf is mustard yellow and frayed at the edges, smelling faintly of cedar and dust, yet it possesses a kind of magic—woven into every fiber are memories I had long buried.
Seeing it instantly took me back to winters spent at my grandmother’s house. She was the one who taught me how to knit, her hands guiding mine with gentle patience. This scarf was the first thing I ever made under her watchful eye, a gift for my mother that I was so proud of at the time. It was one of those simple acts of childhood love that I thought had been reciprocated fully. But digging deeper, I came to realize it was an emblem of a truth I had been oblivious to until now.
After my mother passed away last year, I couldn’t bring myself to sift through her belongings. There was too much pain there, even with the happiest memories. But as I held the scarf, I remembered something my grandmother had told me, something I hadn’t fully grasped as a child. She had said, “Your mother will always wear it close to her heart because you made it for her.” I had taken it literally—thinking it meant she would actually wear it. But looking at the scarf now, it dawned on me that I never once saw her wear it. Not to family gatherings, not in photos, not even around the house.
The realization was a sudden, jarring shift—I had to sit down. Memories came rushing back, each one a little sharper now: the times she would brush off my attempts to talk about my hobbies, the way she always seemed too busy to notice the things I cared about. Like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, it all started to make painful sense.
My mother hadn’t worn the scarf because she didn’t want to. That thought hit me like a punch to the gut, but it was interlaced with another: she had kept it all these years. Even if she couldn’t understand or appreciate the sentiment, she respected it. She respected me.
I spent the afternoon sitting by that trunk, thinking about the small acts of love we take for granted, the ways we show warmth that aren’t always reciprocated the way we hope. But they are still there, tangible markers of our attempts to connect with those we love.
Through tears and a bittersweet smile, I realized something: my mother and I were different people with different ways of expressing ourselves. And that’s okay. She had her flaws, as did I, but we loved each other in the ways we knew how.
This scarf, well, it’s more than just yarn and stitches. It’s a bridge between my mother and me, between who we were and who I am becoming. I’ve come to understand that no act of love is ever wasted, even if it isn’t worn around the neck but stored away in a trunk.
Somewhere in that afternoon haze, I found a semblance of peace. There’s so much comfort in finally seeing things as they were, in understanding a truth that lingered under the surface all these years. I’m sharing this here in the hopes that maybe it sparks something for someone else—a conversation, a healing, a return to something forgotten.
Thanks for listening.
Warmly,
Lena