Scarf - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The scarf had been such a simple gift and at the time that's all it was, a scarf. It probably cost just a few dollars. It wasn't anything fancy, just a rectangle of yellow in cheap yarn. Even the knit was too perfect to be hand-made, it had been churned out of a machine with a thousand just like it. Now it sat in a shoe box behind the photograph albums, elevated to something precious, something guarded. In that wool that somehow even failed to capture the notion of sunlight in its watered-down dye lay the memory of when her sister had given it to her. Zoe had saved her tooth-fairy money and gone to the market without permission, then taken the scolding like a pro. When Mama wasn't looking she'd slid it over with a nervous grin, unsure of the reception her big sister would give it. But Ella was old enough to know that gifts were more than scraps of material or plastic. She had worn it every day through the winter regardless of whether or not it matched her usually coordinated outfits.
The man was obviously a father. On top of his bland suit lay a crudely knitted scarf in neon wool. It was unusually short for an adult and somewhat thin, you couldn't help but think it would be more appropriate on a teddy bear. But without it this man was just another faceless corporate executive, two dimensional, flat. With it he was someone loved, someone so sentimental that he didn't remove it once his child was out of sight. I could just see those grey features lighting up at the end of the day to tell nine year old he wore it all the way to work and it kept his neck toasty warm. Which in this unseasonably warm weather I don't doubt it did.
The scarf was a mismatch from oddments of wool and was about twice as long as it needed to be, do that even wrapped twice around her neck she still almost trod on it as she climbed the library stairs to the second floor.
Her Mom had made it from some fluffy and sparkly wool using a drop stitch, then she had sewn the two ends together so that it made a wide circle that could be wrapped twice around the neck. It was perfect. It never came undone in the wind and never trailed in the snow when she bent down.
The scarf was wrapped twice around her scrawny, elongated neck and still both ends draped down her legs almost as far as her ankles; on a rainy, muddy day she must get the ends both wet and dirty. It had the appearance of a scarf inexpertly knitted in a hurry with fat needles and chunky wool, the holes where the needles had been were obvious even from a distance of some meters.
I can hardly believe the Angels have a need for such scarves; anyway, the ones made by the Commander's Wife are too elaborate. She doesn't bother with the cross-and-star pattern used by many of the other Wives, it's not a challenge. Fir trees march across the ends of her scarves, or eagles, or stiff humanoid figures, boy and girl, boy and girl. They aren't scarves for grown men but for children.