A Quiet Seat

I read those lines from Donna Ashworth's I Wish I Knew this morning with a cup of coffee that went a little cold in my hands.

Funny how that happens.
Time keeps moving. We just… pause.

Donna’s words met me differently today. Not like poetry on a page, but like a quiet hand on my shoulder. A gentle reminder that love does not pack up and leave when someone does. It simply changes rooms.

Terry would appreciate that image, I think. He always liked a good metaphor, especially if it came with a chuckle. He had a way of telling stories that made even the ordinary feel like an event worth attending. I can still hear the rhythm of his voice, the timing of his punchlines, the look he gave right before he knew he had you.

I miss that.

But here is the curious thing I am learning, slowly and with some resistance. The laughter did not leave with him. It stayed. Tucked into corners of memory. Waiting patiently, like an old friend who knows you will come back around.

So I am setting a place for him.

Not in a heavy way. Not in a way that keeps me from living. But in a way that says, you were here, and it mattered, and it still does. A quiet seat at the table. A story I will keep telling. A presence that feels less like absence and more like a shift in light.

I find myself talking to him sometimes. Nothing dramatic. Just small things. A comment about the weather. A remark about something he would have found ridiculous. I imagine his response, and if I am honest, it is usually spot on.

He would not want me walking around with a long face. That much I know. He preferred laughter over just about anything. Even when life was complicated, he leaned toward the light. It feels right to honor him by doing the same.

So I am trying.

Some days are easier than others. Some moments catch me off guard. But even then, there is this quiet undercurrent of gratitude. We had something good. Steady. Real. Full of ordinary magic.

And that does not disappear.

Stories never die.
They settle in.
They take root.

Like Terry
In my life.