Before the Chairs were Empty
Summary: A once‑lively family dinner table has faded into silence as a girl eats alone, remembering a chaotic, joy‑filled childhood meal and mourning how distant and disconnected their family has become. note: thank y'all who encouraged me to write this. lowk projecting. 500 words. REALLLL short.
Six plates. That used to be the rule. Two for parents, three for children, and one for whoever happened to be joining us. Tonight, there is one plate, one fork, and an unbearable amount of silence.
Mum is likely outside, cleaning up the washing and gossiping about her day with my aunt, while Dad is at the pub with his mates yelling at the football match on screen. The others are scattered across the city. I take a bite of my now cold grilled cheese sandwich I made, the silence broken only by the sound of my own chewing, and the sudden, vivid memory of my sister throwing mashed potatoes at me ten years ago.
* * *
It was a frigid day, one where all the heat was on and Dad was late because of the weather — rainy enough to delay work but dry enough for it to not be a cancelled shift. Mum was in the kitchen, making sausages and mash (our favourite food at the time) when she finally decided to get us to help. I was six at the time. My brother was twelve, and my sister eight. Us kids were always arguing over the most senseless of things. This time it was because I wanted to watch Mickey Mouse on TV while my brother wanted How to Train Your Dragon for the seventh time.
The TV ended up staying off and Dad finally came home when my sister was setting up the table. We had all sat down, and I had moved on from bickering with my brother to now with my sister. I had apparently stolen her favourite colouring book and ‘destroyed’ it when all of a sudden, she had stopped accusing me. She gained a mischievous smile as I was still defending my creative liberty choices in her book (in my defense, she never told me not to) and suddenly a clump of food flew toward me. A loud “SPLAT” hit my face as all conversation ceased and everyone froze to stare at the clump of mashed potato that was slowly peeling off of my face.
I blinked, a dollop of mash slid from my eyebrow onto my cheek, and saw the shocked faces around the table. My sister still held her throwing spoon aloft with a smug smile on her face. A silent, excruciating moment passed before my brother had finally coughed, “Well, Mum said the potatoes were light, but I didn't think she meant aerodynamic.” After that, the laughter continued and conversations restarted.
If I had known in ten years that our dynamic would dry out faster than fresh paint I would’ve cherished these dinners more.
* * *
Now, as How to Train Your Dragon plays in the background on screen, I stare at those six plates on the table, wondering what had happened. What happened to my brother, who always had a smile on his face? Or my sister, who loved art? Hell, even Mum and Dad, who never strained themselves, are now working harder than they ever had. I miss the old ways. The old dynamic. The old family connection we had and had lost before we all grew up. Before the chairs were vacated. Before we drifted.
