THE EMPTY CHAIR
We've all done it—reached for an extra plate out of habit, set a place for someone who won't be joining us this year. Maybe they've moved away, maybe circumstances have changed, or maybe their absence runs deeper than that. Our hands remember even when our minds have moved on.
It made me think about how Thanksgiving tables tell the story of our lives in ways we don't always notice.
There's the chair that once belonged to your grandfather, the one who taught you that the wishbone tradition was really about making wishes together, not winning. The high chair that gets pulled out of storage when the newest family member is finally old enough to join the chaos. The folding chairs borrowed from neighbors when love expands faster than your dining room.
And yes, sometimes there are empty chairs—the spaces that hold memories of voices we can no longer hear, laughter that lives now only in our hearts.
But here's what I've learned about those empty chairs: they're not really empty at all. Every time someone makes a cherished family recipe, that person is there. When we tell their stories to the younger ones, they're there. When we pause to remember them before the meal begins, they're there.
The people who shaped our traditions remain present in every ritual they helped create. They live in the way we prepare the meal, in our insistence on certain dishes, in the gratitude we feel gathering together.
This Thanksgiving, you might notice both kinds of chairs around your table—the ones filled with familiar faces and the ones that hold beautiful memories. Both deserve our gratitude. So whether your table is crowded with voices or quiet with memories, know that everyone who has ever mattered has a place there.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Contributed by Diana Soltess
