MEMOIR STORY | PROSE POEM | DEATH | LOVE
We Kept the Old Chair
It compelled me to sit for a while
Today, I felt sorrow as I stood by his chair. The hollow pit in my stomach filled with an all-consuming feeling of loss.
Had I been holding onto sorrow? Carrying it with me, like a piece of luggage I could not part with, that held a lifetime of memories?
Year after year, I carried it, never opening it.
But I should have opened it and freed the memories. I’d have lifted them out, one by one, feeling their rough edges, some worn smooth over time, like gemstones.
I could have admired their colour and unique beauty if I had held each one up to the light.
On that sorrowful day at his graveside, the coffin, the flowers, the loved ones with their memories of him, deep sorrow pressed down on my body and soul.
But walking away would mean walking away from him forever.
Someone said to put one foot in front of the other, but I could not take a step.
That step would start the next chapter, the one without him.
I wasn’t ready.
I tried to turn away, but my shoulders slumped, and my body felt weak.
