There it sat
four legs, two arms, straight back,
sturdy, steadfast, dependable, strong
And there it sat
at the head of the table
Empty.
One by one, the side chairs filled
Noisy chatter cloaked the
elephant in the room,
the empty chair.
Memories abound of a
love shared, contagious laughter,
family combat halted by a voice,
eyes always darted to
the head of the table.
Now empty
emotions raw with a permanent loss
Who could possibly fill the empty chair?
Reluctance and timing intervene
all chairs taken but one
Brokenheartedly, slipping into the chair
never mentioning the emptiness repaired.
All pause with relief
time continued, a bond remained
no longer an empty chair.
No long head of the table,
but a completion of the circle
Yacking stops, smiles emerge
the ebb and flow of life marches on.

Biography:

Writing became my therapy fifteen years ago. My personal life took an unexpected turn, and as a processor, writing helped me manage my emotions during the turmoil. I started with journaling and progressed to prose. I’ve found that events in my past that continue to surface need exposure or they will continue to haunt me. This particular poem, “The Chair” confronted the shadows. My mind and emotions tumbled together as I played with words. I didn’t know how it was going to end. Writing this poem changed my negative thoughts about a very emotionally charged situation into a comforting memory.

Prose is the best form of expression that identifies my feelings. The structure is liberating. I’ve written several poems about inner struggles, and each time I’m able to transform intense feelings into manageable thoughts. While not all endings are happy, they allow me to go forward. I’m no longer stuck. I no longer feel the heaviness of despair or frustration or guilt or anger. Writing is my psychiatrist.