songs from an empty chair

I write this now, in loving memory of a man who has not yet left us. A man who still sings in his car, still makes chocolate pancakes every now and then, still permits my naive philosophical ramblings on the nights when I can’t remember why I’m supposed to keep going. A man who never seems to forget it himself.

It wasn’t so long ago that I began to remember him, as if he was already gone. I cannot recall the song, but I remember his voice gliding through my ears. Almost shouting rather than singing, he filled the room with that wavering melody of his. It swept over the two-speaker sound system, covering the racks of CDs and Jazz-player statues with the rusting comfort of his tone. His rebellious hair reminded me of the branches of an awkwardly removed tree, and the mismatched stubble decorating his chin almost resembled a checkerboard, telling stories of hundreds of games of chess that we shared together every few weekends. As he leaned his head back against his cushioned armchair, I snapped out of my memory.

My dad taught me how to be kind. He taught me how to love, to hurt, to be. `

But good teachers get sick. Good teachers, good people get stuck with the responsibility of caring for those who cannot empathize.

What am I supposed to do? I refuse to simply accept it, run away with the warning that nothing can last forever—that all it is is a memory—for a memory is only good as long as you remember it.

That chair is not empty now. I don’t know when my dad will leave it, but I know how I will remember it. Once the throne of a loving father, an intelligent academic, a hard worker—empty. Empty, save for the memory.