One of the most difficult things in life is clearing out and selling the house of one's parents. During one's lifetime a person weaves a tight and intricate web, sometimes beautiful, not always regular, quite messy in places, but unique, a web that is like a fingerprint. And part of that web is also part of oneself, of each of us children. To empty a house, go through personal belongings without asking permission, feels like trespassing, something one would never have done during the life of the parents. There is a reluctance to do so, to touch all those personal items. It is like tearing up that web, destroying something which was unique, killing a loved one all over again. For what belonged to a particular life, was cherished by a person, may not have any meaning at all for the next generation, for the heirs of the house with its contents. Thus a collection of things which construed a life, is taken apart. The jar full of colourful brushes is taken by a son who likes to experiment with paint. An unfinished painting standing on the easel may be left behind, thrown away, the vision of the artist lost forever. The library is either discarded as the books have no meaning for us, the next generation, or the collection is split up. We take what we are interested in, the remainder goes to friends, to antiquarian bookshops, to charities and to market stalls: china, crockery, the favourite frying pan, a chipped egg-coddler, a tea cosy which was always used, ugly or not, a tablecloth which seems brand new as it was too beautifully embroidered and so kept for special occasions only. Worst of all are the diaries, personal notebooks, letters, the many slides, the photo albums, films, etc. Once we start reading and browsing we may realise that we did not know our parents as well as we imagined. We cherish what we get, and what we think has meaning for us as it seems representative of the parents we lost, something tangible. But that is a deception. Without the hand lifting a particular cup, using that brush, playing that organ or piano, reading us phrases from those books, they soon become just lifeless objects, dead mementoes, not really integrated in one's own life. The web has been ripped apart, ruined, what remains are just dust particles, lazily dancing in front of our eyes, meaningless, bits and bobs. The house which still harboured the spirit of the parents, seems less and less welcoming while we rob it of its objects, wall hangings, furniture, trinkets , and eventually loses all meaning. We no longer find there what we were looking for, what we need and miss: understanding, protection, unconditional love; a place which shelters us.

Opening wardrobes, packing clothes which still vaguely carry the smell of a father, the perfume of a mother, may take us unawares and reduce us to tears. We do not want to let go, want to keep them with us forever, but realise the impossibility. We can stand still for a while, but eventually we have to move on, live our own lives, grow away from that home and all it meant to us. And we may finally discover who we really are, influenced and formed by the nest we came from, always carrying our parents with us, but with our own individual and sometimes surprising possibilities and talents.

What one often isn't conscious of is that as long as one of the parents is alive, the other one still lives through that parent, is still part of him or her, represents what they in their long lives together as a couple were to each other. The house may still breathe the atmosphere of the absent parent, even if the surplus of pot plants, which were once so tenderly cared for, the many decorations and ornaments have been removed. There are always things left, books which my mother used to read, a sewing basket, left behind for my father in case a button would go missing. Of course he can't sew and would rather use a piece of thin iron wire, even a bent paperclip. Just as well he has kept that a secret from her. There are picture postcards with her remarks scribbled on the back, books with notes in the margins, her small leather bound bible, the pages dog eared; rows of small glass jars with green herbs which have long since lost any taste or aroma, brittle and brown. We have left them, to remind ourselves of her, our mother. But although my father learned to cook a reasonable healthy meal, he never touched the herbs. Now we have to throw them out, with the letters, clothes, books, etc.  I had not realised that I not only lost my father, but with him my mother, part of him. An orphan and a widow, two dark words. But also a new beginning, new possibilities.