The Light Pulls Up A Chair

The afternoon light falls across the table where you have just set four places. The clink of the fork against the plate sounds too loud in the quiet.

You pause. You realize no one is coming.

The chair remains empty. The meal you prepared now feels like a monument to a life that isn't happening.

In the middle of the day, when the world is moving and everyone else seems to be eating together, you sit alone with the silence. It is a heavy kind of loneliness — the kind that comes not from being lost, but from being left behind while the sun is still high.

But look at the empty chair. It is not a sign that you are forgotten.

It is the very place where the light chooses to sit with you. You do not have to clear the table.

You do not have to eat quickly and hide the evidence. The light is already pulling up that empty chair.

It is not waiting for a crowd. It is here for the one.

The meal is not ruined because the room is quiet. The presence is enough.