The first time I saw his bottles of C2, his beverage of preference for the past few months, I burst into tears. Mom always made sure that there was at least half a dozen bottles for him at any given time, and there they were: six bottles never to be opened by his hand, never to be touched by his lips, never to be enjoyed. It was heartbreaking.

We had cleaned his room the same day they took him away. And now, after the wake, there was the task of looking after his things.

It’s ironic that only a few months ago, I had written about dostadning, the Swedish concept of death cleaning. I had actually thought of bringing up the subject to my parents, but at the last minute decided otherwise. They might mistake my intentions.

And so here I am, cleaning up after Dad, and it has been as cathartic as it has been painful.

Going through his belongings inevitably brought up memories — the jacket I gave him as a gift, the cleaning set that we handled with care, and the oximeter he became obsessed with, near the end.

What brought me to a wretched whimper were his medications. There were just so many of them. Some for his heart, another batch for his lungs, another for his gout, and still another to counteract the acidity which taking all that inevitably brings.

I remember that when I left him to fulfill an engagement one day, I didn’t organize his medicines. By that time, I was exhausted. I felt like I was drowning. I needed to come up for air. And though somebody else organized his medication for him, I play that scene in my head over and over again. Why didn’t I just do it? It took so little from me, I should have just done it. I know it’s useless, blaming myself, but maybe it’s just my way of holding on.

The task is unfinished. There is still a lot of him left behind, and that’s fine. Some things are better left undone.