Gone Home to Richard

Sylvia Crawford,
her last crop harvested
has cropped out,
kicked the bucket,
as the sayings go

when last would I have heard
her call in to Immediate Response
from Cat Island
to add words to the debate
about this country she loved
The Bahamas and its people
its islands with its settlements
she went back to hers on Cat Island

her husband Richard went
and now she's gone
gone to him, away from us

I recall one evening
at their house in the Grove,
out west, reading to them,
T.S. Eliot's "Love Song
of J. Alfred Prufrock"

recall also, one evening,
my daughters were little still
stopping by their house
to drop off something

Mia or Camille, wanting to we we
asked to be allowed in
to use the toilet
Richard said bluntly, "No!"
and abruptly shut the door

in the foyer you entered
when their front door opened
there was an Amos Ferguson
painting or two hanging

acquired when he could be had
for little or nothing

they knew his worth
they were proud to say
from he was considered
to be worth nothing

what a couple they were
what a match they made

a match again somewhere
out of sight, in some dark place
scratching, bringing light

like the light they brought
light left burning in windows
of places they called home
in places they made home

Sylvia Crawford has left us
gone home to Richard
gone home to heaven


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
4:40 p.m. 03.11.10