Footprints

This year, it was going to be a somber Christmas. It was two weeks before Christmas and here we are, celebrating the life of my dearly departed mother.  Even though she was 92, nothing prepares you for the loss of your mother, even when you’re rounding 70 years old yourself. The family had gathered for an impromptu Christmas Dinner.  One less gathering to do in the coming weeks, I suppose. However, the ache in my heart was heavy and growing. I did not feel like spending much time with the extended part of my family, especially under these circumstances.

I moved slowly from group to group as people retold their favorite stories of my mother. Forcing a smile as people put their hands on my shoulder and repeatedly told me how sorry they were.  My mother was quite a remarkable woman as I was finding out. She did nothing more than be a farmer's wife, yet the lives she touched seemed endless, just like the stories I was now hearing. I excused myself after my whiskey glass was empty and walked into the kitchen to get away from the crowd. My sister Anna and my wife Midge working endlessly preparing my mother's favorite Christmas dishes. 

Upon inspection, the turkey was cooked to golden perfection, and the sweet potatoes had just the right number of marshmallows on top. The potatoes were whipped and the gravy had zero lumps. If I closed my eyes, it was almost like mom had made it. I felt the tears surging to the surface and Midge recognized the look on my face, “John, Why don’t you take out this garbage before dinner?” She smiled sweetly as she held out a barely full garbage bag. She always knew when I needed a breather. I took the bag without question.

The chilly air was refreshing. “I can do this,” I repeat to myself as I trudge through the fresh snow to the garbage can. The neighbors waved as they walked their dog, “We are sorry to hear about your mother John. Please let us know if you and Midge need anything.”  

“God, I can’t escape the sorry-ness of everyone,” I think angrily to myself. “I just wanted one moment to think without people nattering at me.” All this was giving me heartburn. 

“Thanks, Pamela.” I manage, “ I better get back in there.” I turn and run back into the house, and force a smile at Midge as I make my way back into the living room. I was in search of more whiskey. Whiskey would not help the heartburn, but it would give me the nerve to continue to have a brave face.

The room seemed more crowded than before. Everyone had to be here now. “Wait, is that Cousin Frank? Oh god, it is.”  I stopped dead in my tracks. Cousin Frank was not well-liked by anyone in the family. His used car salesman bravado gave everyone the impression that he would sell you your own stuff before you even realized it. I smile politely in his direction and turn toward the bar. “Please don't talk to me,” I chant in my head. When I looked back, Frank had stopped to talk to Larry, Anna’s husband.

Dinner was served in relative silence. Pun intended. It was typical of the family to fall silent when food was being eaten. The only person talking was Frank. He was telling Larry about the new cars he had on the lot that he thought would work nicely as an upgrade from the old beat-up Toyota that Larry had driven for upwards of 600,000 kilometers .  I could almost hear Larry saying , “If it ain't broke, don’t fix it,” just like when I scoffed at the mileage a few years back. “This is delicious,” I say to Midge. “I got a little heartburn, I think this is all I can eat.” She frowns a little as I down the rest of my whiskey.

When dinner was finished, my father sat in his favorite wingback chair next to the fire and yelled, “It’s time.” He had in his hand an old tattered book. In a loud voice, he starts, “‘Twas the night before Christmas.”

He had been reading this story every Christmas for as long as I can remember. He even called the Christmas we went to Midge’s gathering out east and read the story to the kids over the phone. After the invention of the cell phone, missed Christmases were punctuated by a video chat of The Night before Christmas. I smile as I sit down next to Midge, and listened to my father repeat the story for the millionth time.  

He seemed to be taking my mother's death a lot better than me. He was 97 this year and out of their nearly 100 years on this earth, mom and dad spent the last 75 together. I envied his perseverance. I closed my eyes, my father's voice was loud and clear. I missed my mother. Slowly, dad’s voice started to fade, and when I could no longer hear it, I opened my eyes.

I was outside. The snow had just finished falling. I could tell because of the crispness that hung in the air. The sun was shining brightly, and the familiar smell of pine filled the air. It was dead silent. It was peaceful. 

The trees along the path before me reminded me of the path to the big hill behind my childhood home. No, wait, this is the path behind my house. I had spent so many hours in the woods behind our house, that I recognized every branch of every tree. I had probably climbed every one of them and had fallen out of an embarrassing number of them. How many broken arms had my mother had to deal with? A smile warms my face.

I looked down and realized I was wearing my old brown snowsuit, and winter boots. The mittens my granny had made me for Christmas were on my hands. Behind me was the red sled that I had gotten for Christmas one year. Wait, I wore all this when I was five. Am I five again?

My thoughts are broken by the sudden thought of my mom.  “Momma,” I cry as I run towards the house. The house comes into view and it looks just as I remembered it as a child. A few years ago was the last time I had been at the old farm, and the roof had fallen in on the house. All the windows were broken, but this house before me was almost brand new. 

“John, are you coming back with your sled,” I hear my sister yell from down the path. I turned to see where she was, but I could not see her. The only thing I noticed was that the snow was fresh and it did not have a mark on it. No footprints and even the sled hadn’t even left any marks. 

"John, what are you doing here?" a familiar voice interrupts my inspection of the snow. “ I thought you were playing with your sister?”

I turn sharply at the voice and come face to face with my mother. She was younger, her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, and she had on her simple blue barn dress. The sun shining behind her gave an illusion of a halo. Suddenly, I remembered this day, it was Christmas day. I was five. The red sled had been under the Christmas tree that morning and the tag said: “From Santa”. I had wondered how Santa knew exactly what I wanted because I never told anyone I wanted that sled, figuring it was too expensive.

That Christmas day, Anna and I played on the big hill behind our house for hours. At some point, I had come back down the path toward the house. I can’t remember the reason now but mom was walking up the path from the barn just like what was happening now. That day, I told her she looked just like an angel. I smiled at the memory as it flooded back to me.  

Mom was holding a pail of fresh milk, and I lunged at her to hug her. The abruptness of the hug sloshed some of the milk out of the pail, so she put the pail down in the snow. "What was that?" She asked with a giggle.

“I missed you,” I said quickly, looking deep into her big blue eyes. She smiled. "Momma, you look as beautiful as an angel" 

She stood up, looking down at me. "That is because I am an angel. Now, you go play with your sister it's not time for you to come home yet." 

“What do you mean?” I asked as she turned and walked toward the house. Again I notice that the snow is not disturbed by movement. I run towards her, I look back at the snow, again there are no marks, the pail of milk gone. This was starting to freak me out, and with panic, I turn back to the direction my mother was walking.

I think she could tell I was panicking. "You aren’t actually here love, that is why you aren’t leaving any marks in the snow. It's not the right time," she called over her shoulder before she walked around the corner of the house out of view.

"But momma," I call. 

"It is not time yet, my love," I hear her voice carried gently on the breeze. 

I follow her around the house, but she is gone. The house is locked. I don’t ever remember the house being locked as a child. Suddenly, I can hear my sister calling for me, so I run down the path towards the hill. I turned one last time to see the undisturbed snow behind me, and then a blinding white light.

“Anna,” I call out. “Where are you? I can’t see you!”

“Oh god, John,” I feel my hand being grabbed. I hear my sister say “John you’ve had a heart attack.”

“What?” I say confused as the room comes into focus. No longer was I back at our childhood home, I was back in my crowded living room. Everyone staring, horrified, as the paramedics worked around me. Midge crying in Larry’s arms. I didn’t know what to say except, “Anna, tell Midge not to worry. It isn’t my time yet.”  I squeeze Anna’s hand and try to smile with the oxygen mask tightly on my face. 

I look over at my dad as the paramedics wheel me out. He seemed unphased by the action, thumbing his book impatiently. He has always been strong and stoic, and I could tell, he was going to finish that damn Christmas story, before coming to the hospital.