I remember momma: she does not remember me.
She smiles at me, as I bring her coffee.
“Are you my husband?”
“You look like him.”
“No, you can’t be, he’s dead.”
Can’t say Ma anymore, it just upsets her.
That she forgot who I am.
Seconds later, back into her world.
Her mind a time-capsule,
as she remembers Elizabeth Street, 1936.
She is in that Purgatory,
between the reality of physical being
and the un-reality of her surroundings.
Wait, maybe this is the Paradise we seek.
Turning away from the world and its turmoil,
where nursing home angels attend to your needs,
where your peers float by on rubber legs,
where time has no meaning, and does not matter.
Where time has no meaning, and does not matter.
So, I visit, stay awhile, chit-chat.
Is all OK?
Then I leave.