Summer of ’85.
Middlefield.
A home meant for people in poor mental health.
I called it an institution,
somewhere to put the unwanted.
Hide the embarrassment.
“There is no place in polite company
for people such as these,”
so spoke the message of the day.
Disabled,
epileptic,
autistic,
downs.
Spelled dead to society
along with unmarried mothers,
labelled insane,
then shut away,
their children
torn from the breast.
Unruly youngsters,
uncontrollable,
removed from circulation.
I remember one such a man,
Albert, we’ll call him,
because after all this time
I’m not even sure of his name.
Incarcerated at twelve,
unfathomable,
too difficult to handle.
Then, seventy five,
a gentle old soul.
He spoke about cricket
and the big wartime bands.
Always a cheery smile,
a precursor to the request.
Could I check if there was a letter?
One from his mum and dad.
“It’s been such a long time,” he sighed.
There was never any mail.
An uncaring world, back then;
maybe it is now.
I’m ashamed I do not remember his name
and I always wonder
if his family ever did.
© Antony N Britt
Antony N Britt - Author 
So so sad & poignant
And 100% true – unfortunately.
Bloody excellent, poignant and sharp. Leaves an impression that’s a positive assertion of what we CAN do.
Researching my family tree, I found a 2x great grandmother who died in a ‘mental home’ years after being admitted because she was upset that her son had left home.
The 1980s weren’t so far from the 1880’s but we have so much more opportunity to understand now.
Thanks for ‘Middlefield’
Thanks. I shall have to do more poetry.
It’s frightening that had places like that continued and attitudes not changed, would I have been advised to send David to one?
Nick
How very sad!
It is. Thanks for commenting. Most appreciated.
Nick
That is very sad but so so true
Yep, and I also got you to read poetry too.