September through December are difficult times for me personally. The end of October and beginning of November are the worst. For thirty-four years, I’ve kept the demons at bay by ignoring them, but they are always close by, pushing for relevance in my life. One year ago, I began to confront them. One by one, they are having less relevance in my life and I am moving a little bit forward each day to find the better me.
There has been a lot of fear mongering about the caravan of people headed toward the United States. President Donald Trump has whipped people into a frenzy about how dangerous this group is while providing little evidence.
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.
Every day I wake up and think, “today I am going to write about that thing in the news from yesterday.” The thing I am thinking about is one of several that came up, but I decided I would research it the next day and make a well-informed post. Then, I read the news and find another six or seven new things to write about.
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