Empty

A really good friend of mine said that on her first date with the man who is now her husband, at one point they were sitting on the couch and they had two glasses of soda on the table in front of them, and for some reason, she looked at them and it occurred to her, “Two. There are two there. I never thought there’d be two.” It amazed her to see two glasses. In retrospect, maybe it is like her soul knew her own future – that this unknown man on the date with her – would be the one for her, would be her mate, her husband, father to her children. I don’t think she ever thought she would get married. And that is why the fact that there were two glasses really got her attention. Look at that. There are two. I never ever thought there’d be two.

I have had such moments myself, and BOY did I end up NOT marrying the man in question. So I am wary of them now.

You invest objects with meaning, and suddenly you start having specific expectations of a specific result. Which, in my experience, leads to heartache. It’s hard though (especially if you are one as me, who tends towards the cosmic view). I’m not big on fate, or destiny or any of that crap. It’s just that … it’s just that … things line up sometimes and start to make an unbearable sense. I realize that this is a part of mental illness, having things just click-click into perfect place, got it … but that doesn’t change the fact that this shit happens to me all the time. I write about it all the time. Or, no, not all the time. But certainly recently.

I have this thing with empty chairs. I rarely sit down and have dinner at my table, it’s not my thing. Well, first of all, I don’t have a table, so that might be a factor. I do have two kitchen chairs, given to me by Barry, my dad’s best friend. They are awesome vintage chairs, with red leather seats, and curved chrome sides. I love them. Very comfortable. I look forward to the day when I have the room to actually show them off. In a sunny vintage breakfast nook, for example, or in an old-school bar area, like I’m living in a Thin Man movie. I sit in one of them sometimes. Hope will jump up in my lap. I’ll put my feet up on the other chair, the empty one, and Hope and I will have a nice quiet time together.

In bad moments, the empty chair haunts me. Or, no, not haunts me. Taunts me. Sometimes I want to throw it out the window. Which would be dumb because I live on the first floor and what’s the point of that.

Most of the time I don’t think about it. It’s just a chair. Sometimes I sit in one, sometimes I sit in the other. Nobody ELSE is supposed to be sitting there.

The other day I was sitting in a park in lower Manhattan, having a snack, and chilling out in the middle of a long stressful day. It’s been beautiful spring-like weather here, not too warm, not too cold – but with a zest in the air itself. The park is surrounded by trees exploding in white blossoms, and on a windy day the air looks like it is full of snow. There are green metal benches all along the periphery of the park, which is where I normally like to sit, but on that sunny day there were no spots available. There are also little green wrought-iron tables in the park, with little green-painted chairs around them. Sometimes people gather around them for study groups, or lunch. There was a little table available with three chairs. I sat in one of the chairs, put my bag down on one of the other chairs, and just sank into a state of total stillness. Trying to relax, breathe, clear my head. Lots of stress this week! Long long days. I was just enjoying the sun on my face, and the white blossom snowfall around me, and the sight of New Yorkers lying on a small patch of grass in bikini tops, reading, drinking lemonade, whatever.

And suddenly my eye caught the empty chair facing me. The chair’s back was to the Hudson, and it seemed, to me, as though someone had just left it. Or was about to sit in it. I don’t know, it appeared to be waiting.

This was a spontaneous observation. I didn’t reach for it. The object itself suggested that to me. A presence, either just left or approaching.

Got a small prickle on my spine, that yeah, was exciting, it’s been a while, but also pricked with dread. To quote that great song from Closer Than Ever, “I’ve been here before.”

But no. I haven’t. Not here. Not specifically here. No.

Then, as though pulled to it, I glanced at my bag. My big empty journal was visible, peeking out. I still carry it around, in case I suddenly feel like starting to write. So far I haven’t, but that’s okay. Must have it there anyway, if the urge to start describing this ongoing narrative comes over me spontaneously.

So it was an odd triangular moment, there in the sun with the green grass and the gleaming Hudson River, and objects that seemed as though they were trying to tell me something.

An empty chair. A blank journal.

I wanted to see into the future. See what those pages might hold. Who might be sitting in that chair. If anyone.

But so far those objects ain’t talkin’.

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11 Responses to Empty

  1. Stevie says:

    Love you.

  2. just1beth says:

    “Could be…who knows…somethings coming, I don’t know what it is, but it is….”

  3. red says:

    Beth – exactly. The suspense is killing me.

  4. Eric the...bald says:

    I am not usually what I would think of as an optimist, but not having a second chair would seem to me to be closed off to possibility. There is always wonderful and terrifying possibility. The second chair may be the most important item in our homes, leaving room for new people and experiences.

  5. Mitch Berg says:

    Y’know, this is why I love this blog.

    Well, one of the reasons.

  6. Bud says:

    Sheila,

    THIS would have been enough: “I rarely sit down and have dinner at my table, it’s not my thing. Well, first of all, I don’t have a table, so that might be a factor.”

    But you always go SO much further and, thankfully, take us along for another wondrous trip. Thanks.

  7. JFH says:

    I really hope Beth is right… uh, that is assuming that your brother’s friend isn’t going to shoot a new boyfriend of yours the night you meet him…

  8. red says:

    Eric – yes yes yes to your comment. To get rid of the chair would be turning my back on so much. You totally get it.

    I’m not an optimist either, but I suppose I am superstitious. I have always had two chairs.

  9. tracey says:

    I love this post.

  10. Kate D. says:

    this writing made me a little teary tonight… lovely and so genuine.

  11. It is what it is. Nothing more.

    Funny thing. I took the red-eye back from Los Angeles on Monday night. Got into JFK on a rainy dawn Tuesday morning, 5:20 a.m. Had to be somewhere at 8 a.m., which made it awkward timing, because I couldn’t go…

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