I keep staring at the red chair,
its back fading in the sunlit window—
little to be done about that,
or the emptiness left behind.
An outline, a trace,
an indentation where he last sat.
It’s my chair, but I never sit there.
That’s his place when he’s here—
except for times he slides in next to me,
leaning on my shoulder,
resting his head in my lap.
I stare at the shape he leaves,
and sometimes, only sometimes, the silence lingers.
I wonder if someone should fill that seat all the time.
How would that feel? Would I be glad?
Or would I miss the stillness?
Would the man in the chair feel trapped,
wishing he had walked away?
Most days, I look past the chair,
turn toward the window just behind—
the very source of the fading light—
and see trees showing off traces of gold and red,
the broad sky, the quiet warmth.
I turn back, knowing it won’t stay empty long.
The room will fill up soon enough,
the couch crowded with family,
and someone will claim the red chair,
a child sitting on a lap,
while I take a spot on the floor,
just happy to be in the room.
It is fine for the chair to wait.
Here in the quiet, comfortable with the space,
I know it won’t always be empty.