SEVEN months after our mother died, my sisters and brother and I gathered in Northern Ireland last week to dismantle what, in terms of material possessions, is left of her, our father and our family life together.

This once warm and vibrant home seemed heartrendingly cold and bare, its contents now shed, like the empty remnants of a discarded exoskeleton, waiting to be divided up, distributed and disposed of. But all this stuff, accumulated over a lifetime, means nothing and everything at the same time.

Beginning in our old kitchen, where we have all sat round the table over the years, arguing, laughing and sometimes crying together, we made a start on boxing up ornaments, crockery, books and cutlery, some for rubbish, some to go to the charity shop or auction and some put to one side for us to divide later among ourselves.

Even the most innocuous items, from an old wooden spoon and battered colander to ugly kitsch ornaments and a favourite mug, were suddenly imbued with enormous emotional charge, capable of momentarily paralysing us.

We also discovered treasured tea sets and glassware, many handed down from grandparents and great-grandparents, in the cupboard in the cloakroom, all kept for “good”, and, like sacred relics, rarely, if ever, touched or used. One old book had the name of mum’s grandfather, whom we had never met, written in ink, with the date, 1890.

There were things belonging to great aunts and uncles we had only ever heard of. And old pieces of watchmaking and jewellery equipment in velvet and silk-lined boxes, including brass scales for weighing gold, which came from the old family shop.

No matter how inconsequential objects now seemed, we, as guardians of the family history, couldn’t easily discard things that once meant so much.

Sadly, none of us knew how the German soldier’s dagger and pair of binoculars, both from the Second World War, had come to be in our home. There is a bullet from more recent conflict, which our grandfather found following a shootout during the Troubles, which left a bullet hole in the fireplace and shattered the glass in the living room window.

We could barely believe the two blue vases which Mum and Dad were given as a wedding present, and which had always stood on top of the mantelpiece, had survived intact. We six children were, to put it politely, rather boisterous.

Stuffed with pens, pieces of paper, sharpeners and anything else we couldn’t find a place for, we would regularly turn the vases upside down to rummage about inside. One of my sisters remembered her relief when she dropped one and it bounced off the floor.

As we worked in different areas of the house, clearing out cupboards and shelves and exploring the dark recesses under the stairs, we would shout out as we came across an interesting photo, letter or other family treasure. In the end, we had to put them to one side, agreeing to return to them another time.

Letting things go was more difficult than we thought. But we’re all aware that, one day, our children will end up having to go through what we keep. And their attachment to it all will be less than ours.

When we texted photos of boxes of cutlery that belonged to our grandparents, to ask if anyone from the next generation would like them, one of my sons replied, unsentimentally: “No thanks – don’t think we need that many knives.” And a nephew answered: “We’re okay for cutlery, thanks.”

I agonised over what to do with my school reports, which, touchingly, Mum and Dad had kept for years. In the end, I binned them, reasoning that none of my sons would ever be particularly interested in how I performed in spelling tests at primary school. Still, it was a wrench.

We all slept in the house together on our last night, drinking champagne and talking and reminiscing until the early hours.

We had already discovered some of Mum’s old love letters to Dad when she was ill, but hadn’t found any from him to her until I came across something Mum had tucked away in her old leather writing case. I read it out to the others: “Just a short note,” said Dad, explaining that he had to go back to work that evening. “But I wanted to say you looked smashing when I met you off the bus tonight, and also that I love you very much, From your Billy.”

He didn’t write it for us to see. But this, and the other love letters, speak of something far more valuable than any of the family silver or framed watercolour paintings we are now dividing amongst us. It is where we all came from.

That line from the poet Philip Larkin has never felt so true: ‘What will survive of us is love.”