Almost a month ago I attended the anual writing retreat run by my college’s english club. I have gone every year since we began when I was still a student and it’s been fun and informative every time I’ve gone.
I won’t say much about it now, but I do have a piece I wrote there for you. Here it is!

My first memory of mother was of her bending over me; her long dark hair sweeping across my face and arms, and this scarf. I remember being fascinated by the white flowers against the bright blue silk. She wore it everywhere this scarf. Whether cleaning the house or going out to the opera; mother always had to wear her blue silk scarf.
Father once asked her if she wanted to be buried with her scarf, but she just laughed at him. She had a wonderful laugh; full and deep like a great gong. She through back her head and laughed her full bellied laugh, and told father that such pretty things are meant to be seen by everyone; not wasted on the dead. It would have been a waste you know. I hardly recognized the faded lifeless doll that lay in mother’s casket; or perhaps it was the absence of her scarf. I can’t be sure.
It has been with me ever since. I never wear it, but every now and again I take it out to remember her. Even after so many years her scent is still woven in to the fabric. She told me once to give it to the girl I love. I would have given it to you earlier, but I wanted to make it special. I needed to do it where the two of us could be alone.
I had hoped you’d like it. No please, don’t claw at the fabric like that; it looks quite lovely wrapped around your throat.