Empty Chairs

I started writing this post on Sunday, but couldn’t find the heart to finish it, so it sat languishing in draft form. Imperfect though it is, I decided to release it.

I was watching the news today and in between each broadcast they had a picture of a solider with a memory spoken by a mother, father, wife, brother, friend. And what struck me was how young most of them were. My age, younger than me, younger than my little sister, unable to even order a beer in a bar. I’ve lost three friends this year, all of them so young, far far too young and I started crying hearing the broken memories of loved ones who had lost. Thinking I feel one smidgen, the tiniest fraction of what they feel and even that feels unbearable sometimes.

I’d like to offer my own memories of those that sit in the three empty chairs of my mind, whose faces I see everywhere.

For Sara, who I see outside, sitting next to me in the sun in her front yard with freshly gessoed canvases in front of us, telling me to not think about it, to just paint. Who always encouraged my art, who pushed me to create and told me that my voice was worth broadcasting. Who always fought for the disenfranchised, who made it okay that I felt things too deeply and cried over the plights of complete strangers, because she did too. Who when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up always said the President of the United States, what do you want to be?

For David, who I remember at fourteen, trying to convince Anne and I that very bad music was in fact very good music. Who was so lucky to find the great love of his life in Lisa, who fought cancer so hard I thought for sure he would overcome it by sheer force of will, that it would have to succumb under the pressure of all the love that he radiated and attracted. Who wore F*ck Cancer across his chest.

For Charlie, who I remember squinting in the forest, plotting. Who was my spirit brother and my partner-in-crime and my friend. Who took care of my sister and had no enemies and is grace personified. Who lived for children and books and most of all Laurie. I remember his irreverence, his dry humor, the way I often had to pause before laughing to make sure he was actually joking. I remember sharing tiny secrets that felt so huge at the time.

Sometimes I forget they are gone because they show up in my dreams, and then the sharp blow to the head and mostly I just miss them. And I have nothing to offer anyone who is grieving except solidarity and that is not enough.

One day I hope to walk into a room with four chairs and they will be sitting there and they will look at me and grin and say Sierra! We’ve been waiting for you.