I remember calling out of the window, Mum, what are you doing outside so early? Youll catch your death! She turned back, cheerfully waving her shovel in greeting, Im doing it for you lazybones! And the very next day, my mother was gone.
Even now, I cant walk past our old garden without my heart tightening as if a hand is clutching it. Each time I see that path, a wave of memories washes over me. It was me who took that photograph on the second of Januaryjust strolling by, I noticed footprints in the snow and stopped in my tracks. I snapped a picture without really knowing why, and now its all I have left from those days.
New Years was always a family affair in our house. Mum was up before dawn on the thirty-first as usualI woke to the familiar scent of frying sausages and her voice drifting in from the kitchen.
Come on, love, up you get! Give me a hand with the salads before your dad scoffs all the ingredients while were not watching!
I trudged downstairs in my dressing gown, hair a mess. She was busy at the stove in her favourite apron with little peaches on itthe one I gave her back when I was still at school. She was smiling, her cheeks rosy from the oven.
Mum, let me at least have my tea first, I groaned.
Tea later! You can help with the potato salad first! she laughed, sending a bowl of baked vegetables my way. Chop them up fine, just how I like. Not like last time with huge lumps the size of bricks.
There we were, slicing and chatting about everything under the sun. She shared stories of her own childhood New Yearsno fancy salads then, just some herring under a blanket of beetroot and the tangerines her dad brought home as a treat from work.
Then Dad arrived with the Christmas tree, massive as ever, nearly scraping the ceiling.
Well, ladies, admire this beauty! he cried from the front door with a flourish.
Oh, Dad, did you take out half the forest? I gasped.
Mum looked over and shook her head. Its beautiful, but where on earth will we put it? Last year’s was more sensible.
Still, she joined in trimming the tree. My sister Alice and I hung up tinsel and fairy lights, while Mum fetched the old ornamentsthose same ones from my early years. I remember her picking up a glass angel and whispering, I bought this for your very first New Year, love. Do you remember?
Of course I do, Mum, I fibbed, though truly, I didnt. But I noddedand she beamed as if Id handed her the world just by remembering.
My brother John showed up closer to evening, loudly as always, with bags, presents and bottles in tow.
Mum, I got decent champagne this timenot that sour stuff from last year, he declared proudly.
Oh, as long as none of you get too tipsy! she chuckled, giving him a hug.
At midnight we all gathered outdoors. Dad and John were busy with the fireworks, Alice squealed with delight, and Mum stood beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
Isnt it beautiful, darling? she whispered. Were so lucky, arent we?
I hugged her back. We are, Mum, the luckiest.
We passed the bottle of champagne around, laughing when a firework nearly took off into the neighbours old shed. Mumjust a shade tipsydanced around in her slippers to The Holly and the Ivy as Dad spun her clumsily in his arms. We all laughed until we cried.
New Years Day, we lazed about all day. Mum, of course, was back in the kitchen, this time with pies and a great dish of aspic.
Mum, honestly, thats enoughwell burst! I protested.
Nonsense, weve the whole weekplenty of celebrations left! she waved me away.
On the second of January, she was up with the lark again. I heard the door bang, peeked out the window, and saw her shovelling the garden path in her old puffer coat with a headscarf tied under her chin. She worked steadily, from the front gate right up to our doorstep, neat and straight as ever. Piles of snow lined the path just the way she liked it.
I called out, Mum, why are you up so early? Youll freeze!
She turned, waving her shovel in mock sternness.
Otherwise you lot will be trudging through snowdrifts till Easter! Put the kettle on, love.
I smiled and went to the kitchen to make tea. She came in half an hour later, cheeks glowing, eyes bright.
There, tidy and right, she said, sitting down for a cuppa. Looks good, doesnt it?
It does, Mum. Thank you.
That was the last time I heard her voice so lively.
On the morning of the third, Mum woke and murmured quietly, Girls, somethings not right in my chest. Nothing dreadful, just a pain.
Panic crept in immediately. Mum, should we ring the ambulance?
Oh, dont fuss, love. Ive just done too much, all that cooking and running about. Ill have a rest and Ill be fine.
She lay down on the sofa. Alice and I kept by her side, while Dad dashed out to fetch some medicine. She even joked, Stop looking at me like thatIll outlive the lot of you.
But then her face drained of colour. She clutched at her chest.
Oh… I feel terribly unwell
We called for the ambulance. I held her hand, whispering, Hold on, Mum, theyre comingitll be alright
She looked up at me, voice barely a whisper.
Darling, I love you all so much I dont want to say goodbye.
The medics arrived in no time, but nothing could be done. A massive heart attack, and in minutesshe was gone.
I sat on the hallway floor, howling, disbelieving. Just yesterday she had been spinning beneath the fireworks, laughing, and now
On shaky legs, I wandered out into the garden. The snow fell gently, and there they wereher footprints. Small, neat, orderlygoing from the gate to the step and back. Exactly as she always left them.
I stood and stared at them for what felt like hours, asking God, How can it be that someone walks along and leaves their mark, but is suddenly just gone? The footprints remain, but not the person.
It seemed shed come out, that last time, to leave us a clear path. So we could walk behind her, even without her. I wouldnt let anyone sweep the snow away. I asked everyone to leave those prints, until the snow itself would gently cover them for good.
That was the last thing she gave us. Her love, her care, glimmered even after she was gone.
A week later there was a heavy snowfall.
I keep that photograph of Mums last footprints. Every third of January, I look at it. Then I walk to the spot by the house and stare at the empty path. The ache in my heart is sharpknowing that under that snow, she left us her final trail.
A path I still follow, even now.
