It's an inevitable part of life's journey: When death forces you to bid farewell to a parent. But as Sophia van Taak discovered after her father passed away, you can find comfort while sorting through their things.
My father had 34 friends on Facebook, almost half of which were family members. He never posted a photo, never mind a selfie.
The only page he followed was of Corn Krige - not because Corn once captained the Springboks, but because he'd been a pupil in my dad's science class back in 1987.
Dad was seldom seen on Facebook, and just over a year ago, he would never be seen again. Now the house is sold and my mom and I have the impossible task of filtering through his possessions.
What to toss out, what to keep?
The more we try to sort through his things, the more we get stuck: "Hey, check this!" "Do you remember these?"
"I could have sworn we threw that out years ago!" And, frequently: "Why on earth did Dad decide to keep this?"
Like the jumble of 14 cellphone chargers - and their corresponding phones - I come across in his study…
I'm sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the corner cupboard, unpacking its contents - a mix of marvellous items that I've found fascinating since childhood.
My dad's things, all shrouded in the unmistakable scent of gun oil. I arrange the phones from absolutely ancient to just plain old: Siemens S1, Nokia 3100, Nokia X2, BlackBerry Torch 9800. Dad complained that its buttons were too small for his thumbs and subsequently switched to a Samsung.
Swaddled in a piece of cloth at the bottom of the cupboard lies the telescope that he would rig up occasionally to show us the planets and the craters on the moon. And - I remember so vividly - Halley's Comet in 1986.
Here's his old Kodak No. 2. Can you still buy film for a camera like this? Ah, and here's his Pentax Spotmatic, fitted with a bellows for macrophotography.
And yet another antique camera: a Polaroid Colorpack 80.
I'm surprised to learn that my pragmatic father had a secret sentimental side that made him hang onto these things. I don't want to break open the leaden money box, but I manage to wriggle a coin through the slot. It's a halfpenny from 1939 - Dad hadn't even been born yet!
A box of Ritmeester cigars? I never saw Dad smoke anything other than Benson & Hedges Ultra Mild, but this tells a different story - there are only three cigars left.
There's more: A pipe, and, with it, a packet of Douwe Egberts Amphora Mild Aromatic tobacco, plus a small box of Rum and Maple Original Blend No. 53.
Marie Kondo, the Japanese declutter consultant who's teaching the whole world how to fold their socks, is sitting on my one shoulder like a little devil, whispering her famous motto that supposedly helps one to decide whether to keep something or get rid of it: "Does it spark joy?"
No, it doesn't, Marie! These things only spark grief! And that's exactly why I inhale the smell of tobacco one last time. Because there's more to life than joy alone.
Next I discover Dad's old binoculars, the broad leather strap softened to suede over decades of use. A bag of marbles. A pistol holster. A chunk of pink quartz and a selenite rose from the Namib.
His indestructible Eveready standing flashlight - square and bright yellow like a block of gouda.
In a stack of LP records I find The Shadows at the Colosseum, recorded in 1961, a couple of Beatles albums, Liberace's Golden Favourites, Mario Lanza's songs from The Student Prince (1954), and two popular Springbok Radio compilations - numbers 9 and 22.
The next one in the pile also doesn't succeed in firing off a spark of joy, but evokes another emotion, something more bittersweet.
Hot August Night is the Neil Diamond album that was playing that day in Standard 6 when Dad taught me how to dance on the stoep, as the dog barked and spun around our legs in a fit of excitement.
The cupboard is almost empty, but I don't want this sorting session to end.
Right at the back, a shimmer of glass catches my eye. I reach for what turns out to be a test tube filled with formalin.
Floating around in the liquid is a fat, white termite queen the size of my thumb. Did a young Corn Krige also stare in disgust at this relic from my father's science class? I must show Mom!
I find her in the kitchen, packing teacups in bubble wrap. I hold the test tube against the ceiling light and ask her to guess what's inside.
She answers immediately, albeit incorrectly: "Oh, my gosh! Is that the cholesterol they took out of Granddad's neck?"
Bursts of laughter, for the first time in months.
I return to the study to finish what I've started. The bottom of an old shoebox falls away when I pick it up and photographs tumble out.
Family snapshots taken underneath the willow tree in the backyard. I'm not even looking at the camera, my neck is bending backward - there was probably a plane passing overhead.
A photo of my mother taken at dusk, Karoo koppies in the background. She's clutching a bunch of white flowers, held up in front of her red jersey. The inscription on the back reads: Farm, honey flower season, 1971.
There's a photo of my granddad as a young man, a whippet jumping against his chest. The note simply reads: Granddad as a youngster, he has a dog.
There's one of our family having a braai with friends at Betty's Bay - everyone's hair tousled by the wind, our gaudy tracksuits unmistakably 80s.
Another: Grandma, dressed in a floral frock, staring skyward with a strip of film negative held in front of her eyes: Solar eclipse, Calvinia.
A yellowed envelope contains a few more of my mother: In her nightgown, sewing curtains on the trusted Elna machine; throwing a snowball straight at the camera (Montagu, 1972) and an out-of-focus photo of her and Dad dancing in someone's living room - maybe the apartment in Camps Bay where my uncle used to live?
There are a few pics from my father's army days: on the railway platform withother recruits in Worcester, hands in pockets, one foot resting on a suitcase.
A bunch of them in a tent - sleeping bags pulled up to their ears, balaclavas covering their faces. And then one I've never seen before: Dad and a friend both wearing a big guy's army browns: Each of them has climbed into a trouser leg and wriggled into the same shirt!
This photo would have got my dad plenty of "likes" and "LOLs" on social media, but not a single one of these images was taken for the purpose of getting a reaction. These photographs never even earned a framed spot on his desk.
I imagine my father kneeling in front of this corner cupboard late at night, the rest of the house asleep. I see him picking up these little gems one by one, holding them in his big hands while his mind wanders to days gone by.
My father's life was never on display. He didn't expect constant acknowledgment or applause from anyone.
And yet his presence was enormous and authentic.
Marie Kondo can do with the rest of the house as she pleases, but the contents of this cupboard… We're taking everything to my mom's new home.
In years to come, when the passage of time begins to erode our memories of Dad, the things from the cupboard will become precious beacons of remembrance.
