"I felt like I had died too, and they just forgot to bury me."- Unknown.
A chair sits in the corner of the room. Compartmentalized away. A layer of dust sits neatly atop its wooden frame. I cannot bear to sit, in fear you may come back and wonder why I had taken your spot.
It’s funny, sometimes I think I hear the scrape of its metal feet along the floor, and I scurry with such fierceness, awaiting your arrival. To no avail, you are not there. The chair sits exactly where it always has, and my grief grows stronger.
It’s not the table that bothers me so much; it is always full of faces. But that chair, your chair, sits comfortably where it has always sat. This time, without you in it. Phantom dinners do not fill my appetite, yet setting the table has become so routine. Your plate brims with meals past, rotten to the core.
“Pardon the smell,” I tell the guests. “I am expecting a special someone any minute now.”
“But, the clock is broken?” They cry!
Funny, the hands haven’t moved since you went away.
“Suppose I’ll have to get a new one!” Don’t worry, my love, it is just a clock. I must be able to tell the time, I suppose that I cannot change. But your chair? No no. I will keep it at the table for many meals to come. Should you return to join me someday, I will make sure to polish the silver and shine the china.
I wouldn’t want a poor table to spoil your last meal.
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