On Christmas Eve, Id laid the table for two, though I knew I would take my place there alone. From the sideboard, I brought out our two crystal glasses, setting them down carefully as though nothing had changed. Two knives and forks. Two plates. Two cloth napkins, pressed until they cracked crisply in my hand.
It was almost as if, at any moment now, he might step through the sitting room door and announce, in that gentle, teasing way of his, that it was time to dine. That the wind was cutting outside. That Christmas never waits.
But he wouldnt be coming. Hed been gone for a year now.
The telephone lay silent. My daughter wouldnt be arriving. There would be no calls from grandchildren, not tonight.
My palm lingered on the snowy white tablecloth with its delicate embroidered daisiesone Id stitched myself, many years ago, when my hands were nimble and eyes clear. Hed always been fond of it, claiming the winter-white and pale blue thread reminded him of my eyes in our early days.
A fleeting smile touched my lipsperhaps the first in a while.
I prepared his favourite dishes. Not because I expected a knock at the door, but because it was habit, part of who I was. It comforted me somehow, although my heart still refused to accept that, across from me, the place would remain empty.
I sat and looked at the scene before me. The table looked lovely, as it always did on Christmas. My mind drifted back to the last Christmas we spent together. He was rather frail then, but he took his seat, managed a warm smile, and asked me, quietly, not to close myself away when he was gone. To live. To believe in tomorrow, not to yield to solitude.
Id promised him that, right there.
The clock chimed on. Outside, fairy lights sparkled, snatches of laughter floated up from the street, children played, leaving footprints in the thin dusting of snow. There was much festivity elsewhere, but none of it trickled into my silent sitting room.
Much later in the evening, the telephone finally ranga brief call. A festive voice, rushed and cheerful, little time for more than pleasantries. No questions, no lingering. Then, only quiet once again.
I took up the glass from his place and raised it gently, murmuring my thanksfor the years, for the love wed shared, for having belonged to someone, if only for a while.
Then I cleared the table, slowly, with deliberate calmthe careful motions of someone who knows, deep down, this ritual may not be repeated.
At last, I sat by the window in the darkness. Outside, Christmas rolled on and on, indifferent and bright, while within, only recollections lingered.
The table had been set for two. But the second seat stayed empty.
Have you ever found yourself laying a place for someone who is already gonenot because you expect their return, but because your heart simply cant release them just yet?
