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  • Writer's pictureAnna Crichton

A small cylinder of ash

Updated: Jul 10, 2020

My Dad died four months ago today. He’d just had a sip of tea and put his cup down on the hospital side table, and, so I’m told, gasped and expired. He’d spent the last 15 minutes coherently conversing with the nurse about his time as “Gary Crichton, Crichton Ford, pleased to meet you”… as a Napier native she knew the place well. What a perfect ending. No obligation to hold onto life for a hoard of family members bending over watching every feeble last breath, no unnecessary attempts to explain any last minute apologies or regrets. He was ready, unafraid and knowing. And he chose when. R.I.P. Dad. 

PS: I’ll get up early one morning with the sun and take a small boat out onto the Ganges and scatter this small cylinder full of Dad’s ashes onto the giant tide..he’ll travel all the way down to The Bay of Bengal and out into the Indian Ocean. What a trip!


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