The Chair at the Edge

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Even the empty chair listens, holding the weight of what’s been left unsaid.”

At the edge of the lawn, a chair sat untouched. Its presence was simple, but it carried more than wood and fabric. Empty seats are never empty, they hold the memory of voices, the press of conversations unfinished, the echoes of what may have been spoken but wasn’t.

In the cooling air, the chair became a witness. Every rustle of leaves, every faint sound drifting across the cove seemed to lean toward it, as if the silence itself demanded to be heard. The absence of someone there was louder than any gathering could have been.

The chair waited, steady at the edge, holding a space that could not be ignored.

An empty chair is never bare,

it holds the weight of those not there.

It gathers whispers, keeps the sound,

of words that never left the ground.

It waits in silence, still, contained,

with stories that linger and remain.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

And in the waiting, the chair seemed to promise, what is unsaid will one day return, and it will not be as quiet.

12 thoughts on “The Chair at the Edge”

  3. Beautiful, Kerri. When I’m walking on trails or in parks and see chairs or benches donated in memory of someone, I like to stop and read the name of the person. So when you said, “Empty seats are never empty, they hold the memory of voices, the press of conversations unfinished, the echoes of what may have been spoken but wasn’t,” it reminded me of those along the trails or in parks, and the memories not only of the people who donated them but also of those who are no longer with us.

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