I shouted out the window, Mum! What are you doing out there so early? Youll catch your death! She turned and waved her spade in greeting. Working hard for you lazy lot! she called back. The next day, Mum was gone.
Even now, I cant bear to walk past our old garden without a lump in my throat. Each time I see that little path, my heart clenches, as if someones squeezing it tight. It was on the second of January that I took that photojust happened to be passing by, spotted the neat footprints pressed into the frosty ground, and stopped. I took a picture, not knowing why. Now, that photograph is the only thing I have left from those days.
Wed celebrated New Years Eve as a family, as always. Mum was up before the sun on the thirty-first, bustling around the kitchen. I was woken by the smell of frying sausages and her cheerful voice echoing through the house: Darling, up you get! Come lend a hand with the saladsotherwise your father will eat half the ingredients before I can even blink! I wandered downstairs in my pyjamas, hair everywhere. She stood at the hob in her favourite apronthe peach-coloured one Id given her as a schoolgirl. Her cheeks were pink from the ovens heat, her face beaming.
Mum, let me at least have some coffee first, I yawned.
Coffee after, potato salad first! she laughed, tossing a bowl of roasted vegetables in my direction. Dice them fine, love, not like last timethose chunks were fit for a lumberjack!
We chopped and chatted about everything and nothing. She reminisced about her own childhood New Yearsno fancy salads back then, just a herring pie and the odd tangerine her dad would bring home from work as a special treat.
Dad arrived just after midday, lugging in a massive Christmas tree that nearly scraped the sitting room ceiling. Well then, ladies, look what Ive got! A real beauty, isnt she? he bellowed from the hall, proud as anything.
Blimey, Dad, did you chop down half the forest? I gasped.
Mum looked at the enormous tree, hands thrown up in mock despair. Its lovely, but where will we put it? Last years didnt take up half the room.
Even so, she helped us decorate. My sister, Ellie, and I hung up lights while Mum dug out old ornaments from when we were kids. I remember her holding up that glass angel and saying gently, I bought this for your first Christmas, remember?
I do, Mum, I fibbed.
In truth, I barely recalled it at all, but the way her eyes lit up when I noddedI couldnt disappoint her.
My brother arrived just as dusk was fallingalways loud, arms full of bags and clinking bottles. Mum, Ive brought proper champagne this timenot that horrid stuff from last year!
Oh, son, as long as you dont all drink yourselves silly, Mum laughed, wrapping him up in her arms.
At midnight, we all traipsed outside. Dad and my brother set off fireworks, Ellie squealed and danced with excitement, and Mum stood close, her arm around my shoulders. Isnt it beautiful, darling? she whispered. Were so lucky, arent we?
The luckiest, Mum, I replied.
We passed the champagne bottle around, laughing when a firework veered off toward old Mrs Greens shed instead of the sky. Mum, a little tipsy, was soon dancing in her slippers to The Holly and the Ivy, and Dad swept her off her feet. We all laughed until our sides hurt.
On New Years Day, Mum was back in the kitchen, mashing potatoes and boiling gammon. Mum, honestly! Were stuffed! I groaned.
Theres always room for more. Its traditionwe celebrate all week! she insisted.
On the second of January, she was up early, as always. I heard the latch click, peeked outside, and saw her already out there, wrapped up in her old duffle coat, scarf knotted about her head, shoveling a narrow path from the gate to the back step. Precise, tidy, just as shed always liked.
I leaned out the window. Mum, what are you playing at? Youll freeze!
She turned and waved. Otherwise you lot will be wading through snow until Easter! Go on, put the kettle on.
I smiled and headed for the kitchen. Half an hour later she returned, cheeks glowing, eyes bright. There, its all sorted, she said, sitting down for a cup of tea. Looks nice, doesnt it?
It does, Mum. Thank you.
That was the last time her voice sounded so full of life.
On the morning of the third, she woke and said softly, Girls, theres a bit of a pain in my chestnothing terrible but not right. I was immediately uneasy.
Mum, lets ring for the doctor?
Nonsense, love. Ive just been on my feet too much, rushing around. A rest will sort me out.
She stretched out on the sofa. Ellie and I sat either side, worried. Dad had nipped out to Boots for medicine. Mum managed a joke: Dont look so tragicIll outlive the lot of you, just you see.
But then her face went pale. She clutched her chest.
Oh I dont feel right oh, its bad
We called an ambulance at once. I held her hand, whispering, Please, Mum, hold ontheyll be here soonitll be alright She looked back at me and, in the faintest breath, said, Darling, I love you all so much Im not ready to say goodbye.
The paramedics got there quickly, but it was too late. A massive heart attack. Everything changed in an instant.
I sat on the hallway floor, sobbing, refusing to believe she was gone. Only yesterday shed been dancing under a sky of fireworks and tonight… nothing.
Barely able to stand, I wandered into the garden. The snow had barely fallen. I saw her footprintssmall, neat, straightfrom the gate to the kitchen door and back again, just the way she always left them.
I stood there for ages, staring at them, asking God how its possible: how can someone walk here yesterday, leave such perfect prints, and today be gone? The prints remained, but she did not.
To me, it was as though shed gone out one last time on the second of Januaryto clear us a path, so we could walk without her, at least for a while.
I never swept those footprints awayand I asked everyone else not to touch them. Let them stay, until the next heavy snow finally covers them forever.
That was Mums last act of care for us. Even when she was gone, her love showed itself in the smallest things.
The snow fell thick a week later.
I still keep that photo of her final footprints. Every year on the third of January, I look at it, then gaze at the now-empty path outside the kitchen door. The pain doesnt ease, realising that beneath that snow, Mum left her last trail. The same path I still follow, step by step.
