EMPTY SEATS VANISH IN A BIGGER ROOM?

Empty seats in a big room have a story.

There’s the name tag on a table, but no one in the chair.

Something happened, and like a book on a shelf that’s never opened, who cares?

Maybe you ought to figure it out before more seats turn up empty.

(The ‘you’ includes me, but mostly you.)

I talked to a dad once, a guy whose own father said he would connect better with his kids after they were old enough to understand him.

All the time in the world to make things better than ever. A hopeful future.

Then his father got sick and died. His kids didn’t get a chance to know him better, his grandkids don’t remember him.

The dad said he kept his father’s memory alive by using his name as passwords on social media.

They say hello every morning.

“DearBartholomew.”

Empty Seats On Board

Does anyone remember a verbal exchange that could have gone better?

Anyone?

You said something, they said something, and suddenly an avalanche of bitterness crashes down and you wonder what any of it has to do with you?

Back in the past shit talk was just part of life that went in one ear and out the other.

But, when a hurt voice goes through a litany of empty seats in their mind, and you’re a passenger in their car, be attentive.

If they blame you for emptying the seats, don’t start looking for a stop sign where you can jump out.

Consider it a conversation with give and take. It’s just they’re not very good at it, giving more shit talk in a never-ending stream, and adding more.

They might feel better for letting it out, but be sure they won’t feel better if you give it back.

And, for God’s sake, if you need to unload your acrimony, don’t send a text.

See a counselor, not a bartender.

Working The Seats

Remembering things, remembering history with a small ‘h’, your history, is a direct path to a life well lived.

You’ve got the pictures AND the news clips. The deuce.

Better than that, you have witnesses.

Those are the people you knew, and who knew you, at each stage, each stop, in life.

The kids I knew in fourth grade, kids I played with, weren’t the same kids in fifth grade.

What changed? Sports.

My brothers and I were sports guys. We had a driveway hoop.

From there on, I drew a line. Then I grew up and erased it.

A little.

I still like people who’ve played sports a few seasons to get a feel for the routine needed to participate, to compete, to win.

It doesn’t have to be bone-crunching, limp-inducing, surgery correcting, sports.

Any sport, any age. On the playground, or on a team.

The key is the season and time spent on it. That’s where you feel the obligation, the duty, to bring your best effort, to not let others down.

I remember my dad watching football practice on the field below the junior high, smoking darts and blowing plumes of tobacco and condensation.

Other parents watched from chairs. They all turned into empty seats over time.

Instead of the dad whose time to connect with his kids ran out, start now.

Today.