One Chair Empty

First holiday since.
Nobody wants to say it.
(one chair empty)

Mama set the table out of habit —
seven plates for six of us now.
Nobody moved to fix the number;
we just sat and bowed our heads down.
Your brother carved the way you taught him,
your grandbaby wore your Sunday hat;
halfway through, your youngest whispered,
"Somebody tell it like Papa had."

And the stories started coming
like the gravy passing round —
first a chuckle, then a river,
your whole life at this table found.

One chair empty at the table,
but the table's still full of you:
every recipe, every blessing,
every laugh we're passing through.

Pull it closer. (his chair)
Leave it set. (right there)
(the table's still full of you)

We told the one about the fishing trip,
the truck stuck on the hill,
the year you fried the turkey twice —
the smoke alarm sings it still.
The little ones who never met you
were laughing hardest of us all;
that's when Mama stopped her crying:
you were bigger than the empty, after all.

And the stories started coming
like the gravy passing round —
first a chuckle, then a river,
your whole life at this table found.

One chair empty at the table,
but the table's still full of you:
every recipe, every blessing,
every laugh we're passing through.

Truth is, we thought the empty chair would swallow the whole room.
But an empty chair is proof
somebody sat with us a long, good while.
So we'll keep setting seven places at the table —
not for sorrow. For the stories.

Mm. (seven plates)
Mm. (six of us)
(bigger than the empty)

One chair empty at the table,
but the table's still full of you:
every recipe, every blessing,
every laugh we're passing through.

Mama wrapped a plate in foil.
Old habits. Good ones.
(one chair empty, table full)