I set the table again this year.
The same way I always do.
Plates. Glasses. Napkins folded just so—
and one chair left waiting.

Not because you’ll walk through the door,
but because I can’t bear to close it.
That small space holds more
than any words could name.

It holds laughter that once filled the room,
and silence that hums with memory.
It holds the ache of what was,
and the fragile warmth of what still is.

Some days I talk to the chair.
Other days, I just glance at it—
a quiet truce between hope and truth.

I save a place for you,
not because you need it,
but because I do.
It reminds me that love doesn’t vanish—
it shifts, it lingers, it learns to sit quietly
in the spaces we keep open.

So when the lights glow soft this season,
and the world hums of joy and return,
I’ll honor the stillness beside me.
That empty chair—
is how I remember,
and how I go on.

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The Empty Chair by, Mary Fridel-Hunt