You always left your seat empty at the table. Not because you were rude—because you were always moving, always half-risen to help someone else.
After you died, I couldn't move your plastic lawn chair. It stayed for two years, sun-bleached armrest, pushed in at an angle.
Now I'm engaged. We're saving every bonus and holiday shift differential for a house with a yard.
Last week I picked up my fiancée's daughter from school. The pickup line was a slow river of minivans and tired parents.
I sat in the driver's seat, AC humming, watching her run across the blacktop. And I understood.
I had become you. The one who waits. The one who leaves a seat empty because I'm the one filling it with presence.
I bought a new chair for the table. But I still don't move yours. Now I know why.