Empty Chairs
The revision of a poem I wrote in 2013 at the end of my junior year of high school. Made a lot of friends in my AP classes but they graduated and I stopped seeing them.
The classroom had many things. Many people, many words, and much knowledge. After a year I see all that has changed. There are no people, no words, and no knowledge. The "Class of 2013" has departed. I knew it was inevitable ever since the first sunbreak of the earth's axis. I knew it was drawing close ever since winter went to its deathbed at the first sign of peeking bluebells. The whole process flashes back to me over and over like a commercial that interrupts a good show. The sun drew away— I shook new hands. The absence of sunlight kills a generation of nature— I smile at new faces. The absence of the sun brings harsh cold— I laugh at familiar words. The sun's inevitable debut ushers in a new generation of nature— I flow with familiar but ordinary voices. The helicopter parenting of the sun brings blistering heat— I let go of unfulfilled hands. The numerous things the class once held are now gone. Only chairs remain and a large table. The chairs hold voices and experiences once held precious. I sit alone in the class and the chairs remain empty. The silence rings in my ear loud like an unexpected thunderstorm in summer that cancels a beach trip. The empty chairs are solitary in drowning out the silence. Or rather what use to be there? I look at them all and I'm lost within a world of memories that replay over and over. Voices reverberate in my head. The laughing faces and the warmth within my heart, all comes back to me and make it worth staying but harder to leave the room. Replaying like any favorite media that has been viewed to the point of irritation. It’s all over when reality knocks and I'm left alone with what has not been lost but has left. The empty chairs hold it all. Their silence is suffocating. But the empty chairs of memory always threatens to deafen my ears.
I’m so amazed you wrote this poem as a junior in high school.
I really like this:
"The whole process flashes back to me
over and over like a commercial
that interrupts a good show."
This poem feels so tender to me because my oldest son is in the middle of AP testing, and it's also the end of his junior year of high school 💛. His best friends are the people from his AP classes.