I returned home from a long day at work,
my gaze, like a magnet, drew me there.
In the corner of the room, it just seemed to lurk.
Such a benign object: an empty chair.
I stood for a while, transfixed so it seemed;
mesmerized by what wasn’t there.
Its emptyness practically screamed;
this piece of furniture; this empty chair.
Why did it desire to haunt me;
why was her ghost not there?
And yet, it continued to taunt me;
this lovely green empty chair.
I remembered the day when we bought it.
It would look great in our living room.
A chair of great comfort in which to sit;
never thinking she’d die so soon.
When she got sick, she’d sit in that chair,
long hours when I was not home.
She felt great comfort being there,
in spite of her being alone.
Then, returning from work one night,
I hurriedly opened the door;
my eyes confronted a horrific sight;
she was sprawled by her chair on the floor.
Nothing of present seems long to last;
eventually going elsewhere.
It stands as evidence of life gone past;
this solitary empty chair.
Monty Caldwell
The Cardboard Breadman