The Empty Chairs of Christmas
Christmas has a way of filling the air with sound—wrapping paper tearing, cutlery clinking, and familiar songs playing softly in the background. The table grows crowded with food and stories, little jokes that only make sense to us, and the joyful chaos of being together.
And yet, amid all that fullness, I always notice the empty chairs.
Some are momentary—empty not because of absence, but distance. When we are in South Africa, I miss the voices of Greece. When we are in Greece, my heart aches for the rhythm of our life back home. My family has always lived stretched across two continents, two time zones, and two homes. And every festive season, no matter where we are, someone is missing. Technology helps. It pulls us closer. We send photos, call across dinner tables, and share a laugh through screens. It’s something—and I’m thankful for it—but not everything. It doesn’t fill the seat. It doesn’t carry the smell of the food, the warmth of the hug, or the overlapping chatter of a shared space.
But this year, there will be a different kind of empty chair. One that cannot be filled, not with time, not with travel. This year, the absence is not across countries but across worlds.
This year, we will set the table with one less place.
Still, the empty chair is not just a space—it is a symbol.
Of how much we loved.
Of what we carry forward.
Of how even in grief, we gather. Even in longing, we celebrate.
Christmas doesn’t erase the ache. It simply asks us to hold it gently, alongside the joy. To light candles, to clink glasses, to make room for both presence and absence.
And so we will. We will fill the chairs we can. We will laugh and remember. We will sit beside the emptiness—and honour it.
With memory. With gratitude.
And with a whispered, I wish you were here.
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