As a child she remembered the smell of the winter air through the wool scarf her mother lovingly knit her. Somehow it always seemed fresher with the pink one, with the ivory fringes. By the time she got home from school her eyelashes were tipped in white and her cheeks were flushed, but her fragile lungs were protected against the cold gusts that triggered her asthma. The soft pink was her favourite colour and stood out amongst the dreary black and greys of the season, so she felt quite special when she wore it, never really associating it with her how much her mom loved her and how much creative talent she possessed.
Now, as an adult, she often takes long walks on her lunch hour, this time wearing an ivory scarf with pink fringes, again lovingly knit by her mother. It still smells wonderful, like a warm bath, and still prevents fits of coughing. Now she appreciates it even more, as she knows that the hands that created it are starting to curl with arthritis and the eyes that carefully followed the knitting pattern are aided by glasses, but still made with love.
#personal essay #family # short story