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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My worst enemy has four worn feet, a wooden back, a vacant stare; it waits across from where I eat; my oldest foe, the empty chair. It does not shout or bare a blade; its weapon is a vacant space. It lets the happiest plans be made, then wears a missing, cherished face. It ambushes each holiday and waits where laughter should have grown; one glance can steal the room away and remind me I am all alone. It keeps the missing gathered there; the dead, departed, those who fled; what enemy could better wear the living faces of the dead? I hate it for the way it knows which tender memory to employ; it turns the smallest griefs to ghosts and slips them underneath my joy. I hate the victories it claims; how birthdays bend beneath its weight; how it can resurrect old names and make the present sit and wait. I’ve pushed it hard against the wall, then filled the room with noise and cheer; yet it can silence one and all by simply being empty here. No other foe has fought so well without a fist, a voice, or breath; it makes one absence rise and swell until it fills the room with death. For years, I gave that chair command and let it choose which joys could stay; it ruled my heart with unseen hands and drove the living hours away. Until I saw, with sudden dread, the cruelest victory it won: while mourning all the gone and dead, I had become another one. My enemy was not who left, not every promise stripped and bare; it was the way I stood bereft and surrendered living to that chair. So now I pull it near my side and take the place that grief once claimed; the chair remains, but I decide whose living presence will be named. Some absences still linger there; some losses never disappear. But I have faced the empty chair, and filled its greatest void: I’m here.
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