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Breadcrumbs<\/strong><\/p>\n My mother died on Tuesday. I am in her house. Steve, my husband, is in her kitchen making tea. I can hear the bubbling of the kettle, and warm steam seeps into the hallway along with the clatter of cups and saucers. He will be getting them out of the cupboard and laying them on the table next to the breadboard. When we came in, just now, the bread knife was still lying on the board and there were breadcrumbs on it. I said I was going to pick some flowers. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nThere wasn\u2019t much in the November garden \u2013 a few shaggy chrysanths, their copper petals bleached at the edges by the frost, their leaves black. Some ragged Michaelmas daisies. I cut them with her scissors and brought them in.
\nNow I stand in her front room with the smell of boiling water leeching over the threshold and I don\u2019t know where to put them. The glass vase is heavy in my hands. The flowers are lost in it really, but it was the only one I could find. I put it on the table next to the sofa and I sit down and arrange them again. Plucking at their stems so the heads hang over the side. On the sofa next to me there is a copy of the Radio Times. It\u2019s open and folded long ways: 6pm Regional News; 6.30pm National and International News; 7pm Emmerdale. The TV was still on when Steve and I popped in on Wednesday morning to say hello, and found her.
\nMy mother died on Tuesday. And all I can think of is walking into her kitchen, pressing my fingers to those crumbs on the breadboard and touching them to my tongue.<\/p>\n