Paul Hester,
 Did wild ducks gather in the mornings, to bathe and preen and sleep, in the place where the canal widens, or narrows, depending on which direction you are taking, when you were still here? Did you walk down there, by the water and the trees, and ponder the stillness and the green?
They named the little stretch of canal and path and vegetation after you, near the place where you chose to take your life. There’s a pretty little wooden bridge, and a tasteful plaque that mentions nothing of strange fruit. It is a peaceful place, a little urban wetland, prone to announcing itself by stench in the summer.
But it’s the ducks that I always noticed, in shades of brown with the sudden flashes of luminous petrol green underwing. It is the ducks that made me remember you, on grey winter mornings, riding on the 246 bus, down Glenhuntly Road. I had forgotten them,  forgotten how I always looked for them there, across from the primary school, looking like they were an omen for the long day ahead. I had forgotten that I swore off eating duck for a long while.