Some say empty chairs remain
empty
all around tables in
remodeled kitchens with the
island where someone’s son
ate breakfast. A bar stool sits
empty.
“Remember me” is a common thought
of some who read Bibles and then
wonder when a chair sits
empty.
No matter who believes and who
does not, nothing takes away a
fact a chair on Thanksgiving Day sits
empty.
Remember those who bow their
heads and tears stream down
their faces of the baby lost, or
the baby who could not stay.
The highchair brought or the
highchair dreamed of sits
empty.
So, Love, I buy the roses and purple
flowers when I hear you say,
“Mommy, can I have them, please.
They’re so pretty. I love them.”
I fill up your seat, so on the
Thanksgiving Day, we
remember you and the other
children gone too soon. We
fill up the seats instead of
leaving an empty space. We
remember the babies who are
first in flight before their toes
ever got to touch the ground.
We recall the sound of tires
coming in the drive, and when he or
she could not wait to dip fingers
in the sauce. We celebrate the
seat next to your grandchildren
where your child, forever your
baby, will sit in your mind.
Love, I fill up your seat for
a Kindergarten dream
never realized, or the times I
walk past the walls where
your name and art would’ve been.
Just because the seat is empty,
it doesn’t mean
I’ll leave it
empty.
Corrie's Season 