I was reading about St Christopher
when I took a call from my Ma.
A message from my Uncle.
Please get in touch
regarding his euthanasia.
Dear Uncle.
I detest your position
but I respect your decision.
I wish you’d stay.
That’s my selfishness.
A world away.
What right is mine
to even say?
I can’t know your pain.
Agony every day.
My son carries your name
and I expect will give honour
to the stories I grew up
hearing about you.
Cheeky. Mischievous. Boundary-pushing.
Quietly sensitive, and loving.
Relaxed, warm, authentic
Roguish, fun-loving.
I remember:
an evening in your flat
in Remuera
opening my mind to jazz.
Visiting you in Sandringham
on the day of a Springboks game.
Another flat – were you drying
weed in your oven? My cop
Da not impressed.
Learning to disco
dance at The Forge.
Your mate Ono who turned up
at home for Christmas lunch.
(Years later he let me into a nightclub
underage by at least 24 months)
Your restaurant
The Dutch Kiwi. I was in awe.
You lived 100 lives
or more.
A decade ago,
a lunch in Leeuwarden.
A smoke in a local bar
where everyone knew your name
with cheeky smile
you flirted with the waitress laughing
at your exploits there
the night before.
I don’t know what to say.
Too much too hard to convey.
If you must go, go travel well
dear Uncle, I pray.
In memory of my uncle who passed away peacefully yesterday in Leeuwarden. XX
I like the first verse; I found I had to keep reading from there.