My mother worked for twenty-seven years at the Middletown Psychiatric Center. Most of her career was on the geriatric units. Over the years, I got to know a few of the patients. I always liked talking with Adalaide, even if she didn’t talk much. Just as I entered my teenage years, she passed away. I wrote this poem about her a decade later, sometime between 1993 and 1995.
Sweet Adalaide
I stride in to the room
smelling the stench of institution life
her beauty caught my eye
I began to talk to her and realized
she was a looker even at eighty-five
Adalaide can’t remember my name
she doesn’t remember much these days
but her grin fills in the empty spaces in her mind
she doesn’t really need words, expressions say it all
without a memory she can’t recall the things of days gone by
but Adalaide’s laughter always fills the void
and Adalaide sits in her chair
resting, thinking about days gone by
that she can’t remember
crossing her legs, she smiles at me and thanks me for coming
waving goodbye I smile and notice
the tears in her eyes
I spoke with Adalaide today
she said she doesn’t mind being here
but I know better
she wants to be outside with the birds and the trees
living a life she no longer remembers
no, she can’t remember
so I sit and listen to her
about days that have passed us by
in her big, white chair
with tears in my eyes
Leslie Jordan
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