This is a poem written by my friend Rhonda in memory of Max Croskery.
The morning you left—not this earth, but my little patch of it—I waited
while you, on the phone, tried to sort out that business with your in-transit camera, held up
by the courier company and Canada Customs. It was never going to catch up with you,
you explained—again. Just send it back to New Zealand.
You’d be on the road.
You needed to be at the airport by noon and we wouldn’t have time for the breakfast
we’d planned. Still on hold, you gestured apologetically. To keep busy, I tidied a bit—
carried a spent bouquet of blowsy tulips through to the kitchen, out the back door
and across the yard to the compost. You watched me through the window.
My mind was on your leaving.
And then it was time to go. I locked up while you went ahead, pulling your suitcase
through the grass, along the stepping stones now strewn with tulip petals.
Are these for me? you asked, and we laughed. But later, coming home alone
only to find those petals, and the deep tracks you’d left, I said Yes,
they are, my love. Yes.
Max ,Born September 19th 1960, Died July 20th 2016.