Another empty room

It's been two weeks and it still feels like there's something wrong. I keep expecting my father-in-law to walk out of his room any minute. That he would inspect my pots to see what's cooking for dinner. Or sit at the dining table reading his newspapers with a magnifying glass. Or sit in the hall with his congenial grin as he watches the documentary on telly.

Even as I cleaned out his room, I felt a tinge of guilt as I expect him to be tapping me on my shoulders at any minute, chastising me for throwing out his things. If there's only one complain he has of me, it's that I'm always cleaning up and throwing away his stuff. In our years together of living in the same house, we only have had one long running battle ... because he's a hoarder, and I can't stand disorganisation and mess - we can never agree on what's worth keeping.

I still remember the morning of my first day of marriage. The night before I had separated a pile of old magazines to be thrown away. I woke up to see them all neatly stacked back on the shelves.

As I went through FIL's room in the last few days, I found the oddest things. Some plastic bauble. Nails and nuts and bolts. Pieces of string. A leftover broom handle (he very cleverly managed to hide this one from me, I don't know how). And a whole lot of things you wouldn't expect a 90-year-old to own. That's because he would go on his morning walks and bring back some bit of what I term rubbish.

In his small room, he had three times the stuff mum had. He had enough clothes to fill four huge garbage bags. Though he wore probably only at the most 15% of it. Some were practically brand new as every time we gave him new shirts, he would lovingly hide it away in his closet for 'that special occasion'. He kept ang pow packets from the year dot. And he had newspaper cuttings stuffed everywhere in his shelves. Articles he found interesting, stories of people he knew, orbituaries of his friends. Indeed, it did seem like he was the last man standing.

I had always known him as an old person and already how I feel his loss. What more his children who saw how he grew old tending to his family, bringing up six children, making ends meet. He had a hard life and only in his old age could he sit back and enjoy a little luxury of sitting back to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He was a dashing young man who had come to Malaysia straight from China when he was 17 with his brother. He always felt humbled and ashamed as he couldn't read or write in English or Malay. But he was well read in Chinese and kept books of old classics, and at one point even took up cooking classes to pass his time. He played the harmonica and in the last few months, my other half even managed to teach him how to play Chinese chess on the iPad. He may have been clumsy or slow in his actions, but my nephews would testify that he could still beat them any time at Chinese chess - his mind was still sharp.

God's timing is impeccable as the day after the funeral, the new maid arrived. Though unfamiliar with the inner workings of our household, it was an extra pair of hands that was much appreciated. And I welcomed someone who could help me clean up and half the work load. If I had to do it all alone, I would surely sink into the deepest abyss of depression. Even as it were, I felt a sense of dismal as I went through FIL's things as it sank in that he was truly gone.

And so now our household is back on track ... minus two old folks ... which doesn't quite feel like our home.

There's another empty room with another empty chair and empty bed. And the emptiness is deafening ...