When one parent dies, then the other, cleaning out the family home can feel like a death ritual.It can be painful and nostalgic, but also slightly infuriating. Painful for obvious reasons. Nostalgic because as you work you’ll come across objects you’d long forgotten about that you’d assumed had been broken, or your parents had thrown out. But when this happens for the umpteenth time, it becomes a little vexing. I don’t know anyone who has been through this process who didn’t marvel at the amount of crap their parents had accumulated: things they didn’t need or even may have been broken, yet they couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of. You could view this as a generational trait. They had less money and were more frugal. Anything bought for the house was hard-won and expected to last – even if it didn’t. But if you look around your own house – okay, if I look around my house – I have to admit that I’m well into the same process. We have a shed in the back garden crammed with bits of furniture, boxes and plastic bags, some of it left behind by kids, a lot of it stored there out of a dull sense that in the future, it might come in handy. The attic is the same. Vacuum-packed clothes, duvets in black bags, empty picture frames and an astonishing number of suitcases, most of which I don’t remember buying. I suspect they might be breeding. I keep meaning to do something about it. I give it some thought, and then I need to lie down. The chances are that after my death, someone will see all the suitcases and wonder if I had a part-time smuggling business.The greater shame – at least, this was my experience – is how few of the left-behind possessions you want to keep. An old coffee table is just a coffee table, and doesn’t really say much about the parent who owned it.When my sister and I cleared out our parents’ house the garage was heaving with furniture, much of it older than we were, but in far worse condition. What we couldn’t give away (which was most of it) had to go in a skip. We both kept a few small objects, none of which our parents would have placed any value on. In later life, my father suffered from diabetes and wrote out slightly naggy shopping lists to remind himself to avoid toffees. His last one, entitled Diabetics Diary, was hanging up in the kitchen when he died. It’s now framed in our sittingroom. He was fond of wearing a cap, so that hangs on the wall in my office.I also kept his watch. It’s not fancy or expensive and by the time I got it – a few weeks after the funeral – it had stopped. And in a not-very-logical way, the demise of the watch and my father seemed linked in my mind. I’ve kept it on a bookshelf for the past 16 years. Frozen since around the time he died.[ It wasn’t that my parents were strict; everyone went to Mass. You didn’t think about itOpens in new window ]I always think of my parents on their birthdays. This year, I got to think about my dad while driving from Cork to Dublin. And for a reason I can’t explain, it made me think about his watch. I could hear his voice: “It’s a perfectly good watch. What’s it doing on the shelf?”When I got home, I opened it up. It had been powered by a weirdly small battery, so I found one online and ordered it. It arrived a few days later. Miraculously, the watch sprang back to life.There are marks on the back where it touched his skin. And when I wear it now, I like to think that tiny parts of his flesh are still there, touching my wrist. That I am still carrying him with me.