Dad has moved into a care home. And so my brother and sister and I find ourselves standing in his empty flat, which already feels cold and deserted, faced with the task of clearing it out. In the hallway the smoke detector, impossible to silence, emits a shrill beep every ten seconds, as we set to work, going through boxes and drawers and cupboards, sorting his belongings into separate piles – Keep, Donate, Throw Away. To add to the fun, it is Remembrance Sunday.
Yet not all is gloom, and we find things that make us roll our eyes and laugh: an enormous box marked FRAGILE proves to be full of nothing but packing straw, and though we pick through it carefully, half expecting to find a tortoise at the bottom, it is empty and mysterious. Other finds make us catch our breath – a 60th wedding anniversary card to Dad from our late mother, and, in a small box, her engagement ring.
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