The Chair

We were a party of six, gathered at the in-laws’ table for an evening of food and fellowship. Three generations enjoyed a meal of tacos served with homemade shells we have affectionately dubbed “rubber cakes,” followed by a family game night. We played and talked and laughed and enjoyed each others’ company, a rare treat because Missouri and Indiana are too geographically separated to allow for regular visits.

As the evening ended, my husband looked at us and said quietly, “Dad would have really enjoyed this.”

Heads nodded all around. Dad loved games, and he spent many a weekend night at that same table with his family, laughing, talking, and enjoying the company. On this night, Dad was tucked safely in bed at his new home, a recent move necessitated by declining health and a need for skilled nursing care. His absence was the unspoken memory that evening. His familiar place at family table was occupied this night by the youngest grandson, now old enough to join in our favorite game. As he prefaced every successful play with “Okay,” I remembered how Dad prefaced every successful play with a deep breath.

Thinking back on that evening, I am reminded of the Thanksgiving after my grandfather died. Grandma didn’t have table space for the entire family to eat at once, and so we gathered in the kitchen in shifts. The first shift was the men and older children, and at seventeen, I was part of that group. We took our seats. For a brief moment, the room was quiet as each of us realized that no one was sitting in the seat by the window, at the head of the table. For decades, that seat was Grandpa’s seat. My mother quickly whispered in my cousin’s ear, and he quietly moved to the window seat. My sister sat down in his vacated seat, and the room was soon filled with the blessed sound of dishes passing and shared conversation.

I was in my mid-twenties when several chairs emptied in rapid progression. In the six months between the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving, my mother and both grandmothers suddenly passed. We gathered around different tables that year, the laughter tinged by the unspoken ache of unexpected loss. That scenario has repeated many times over the years, as elders have passed, children have grown and moved across the country, long-time colleagues have retired.

With time and tides, I have found that as one leaves a chair, another comes to sit. Some go on their way after a short visit, while others remain for an extended stay. Each leaves an imprint on our lives. Too often we want to hurry past these magic moments of fellowship shared. One day blurs into the next until weeks turn into years and we have failed to take time to make memories.

Our brief weekend passed quickly. We stopped once more at the nursing home on our way out of town. We found Dad in a chair in the commons area, watching Andy Griffith. He welcomed us with a smile as we quietly approached so as not to disturb the other residents. We talked about breakfast and the weather, and answered Dad’s questions about the route we would travel home. Dad asked if we would wheel him back to the hallway, where residents often sit and watch housemates and caregivers pass by. As we approached the nurse’s station, two aides walked by. Dad smiled, looked at us, and said, “There are my friends.”

One chair empty, another chair filled.

Copyright 2016 Sherry A. Hathaway. All rights reserved.