The Empty Chair

The chair is empty,

where she once sat.

The ritual of daily life

fulfilled in repetition.

Everyday my expectation

to see her there.


Time was wiled away

in simple pursuits,

humble tasks, a way of living.

Eating a meal of the most basic

form of sustenance.


Knitting needles clicked,

a means of dexterity,

to keep fingers nimble,

hands strong in grip,

resisting arthritic attack.


A greeting given;

“How are you today?”

Responded to with firm voice,

“Well enough!”

An exchange, too brief,

covered the local news.

The first review on health and well being,

of others, and oneself.


A recap of the sick,

and a recollection of the dying, or the dead.

Names and relationships,

inter-family connections

were trolled from  a sharp mind,

an excellent memory.

Over ninety years of links,

spoken of, as if it was yesterday.


When I enter that room,

the kitchen, the hub of those memories,

the empty chair is there.

A newspaper lays idle

where once the challenge

of crosswords were met and defeated.


The emptiness of that chair

is met by the emptiness within,

where memory  attempts

to fill a void unfilled.


Passing through life,

one passes many chairs,

expectant once again,

to hear a mother's voice,

that once sat in a kitchen

that now hosts that empty chair.

Will George © April  2016

Will George Poet