Brian Joseph Duckett of Grand Rapids, Michigan, passed away on June 4th, 2021, at the age of 62. He was born to Douglas and Rose Duckett on June 4th, 1959, in Jacksonville, Florida. Brian was the oldest of 3 children, grew up on Murray Lake in Lowell, Michigan, and graduated from Lowell High School with the class of 1977. Brian loved the lake and returned as often as possible. He loved his family and friends, music, helping those in need, and festivals in downtown Grand Rapids. He absolutely loved his sons and his furbaby Blue.
Brian is survived by his sons Scott Moore (Veronica), Jacob Duckett (Amber), and Caleb Duckett (Amanda), father Douglas Duckett, brothers Scott and Shawn Duckett, nephew Tyler Duckett, great nieces Claire and Amelia, grandchildren Arianna, Luke, Dale, Nathan, Joey, Gia, Elijah, Halley, Glory, Aurora, Amore, and Arabella, special cousins Joseph Gessner, Nathan Gessner, and Vanessa Kirkland, and special friend Nancy Williams. Brian was preceded in death by his beloved mother Rose Duckett, daughter-in-law Hope Moore, his grandparents, and several aunts and uncles.
Brian has been cremated and will have a private memorial at a later date.



My Dad's Hands:
Bedtime came, we were settling down,
I was holding one of my lads.
As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:
My hands... they looked like my dad's!

I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,
there was always a cracked nail or two.
And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,
his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,
as strong as a carpenter's vice.
But holding a scared little boy at night,
they seemed to me awfully nice!

The sight of those hands - how impressive it was
in the eyes of his little boy.
Other dads' hands were cleaner, it seemed
(the effects of their office employ).

I gave little thought in my formative years
of the reason for Dad's raspy mitts:
The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,
rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,
when one day my time is done.
The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands
will pass on to the hands of my son.

I don't mind the bruises, the scars here and there
or the hammer that just seemed to slip.
I want most of all when my son takes my hand,
to feel that love lies in the grip.