Widowed in August 2020, Shayne recently shared this incredibly moving and beautiful piece in our online support group and it touched the hearts and resonated with so many of our members. His hope in sharing with our group was that “it helps someone to put words to their pain” and we are honoured to share Shayne’s story with our wider community.
The Empty Chair
by Shayne Clarke for his wife April
The house felt hollow, even though its walls stood firm. It wasn’t the kind of emptiness that could be fixed by turning on the TV or letting the kettle hum—it was deeper, something that settled in the chest and refused to move.
Shayne stared at the chair in the corner of the kitchen, the one no one dared to move since she’d left. It wasn’t because he expected her to come back and sit in it—he knew better than that. But that chair was hers, and somehow, it still held a piece of her.
He ran his hand through his graying beard and whistled softly. Like clockwork, two pairs of paws padded across the wooden floor. Sol and Bridgy, his loyal companions, were the only witnesses to his grief, the only souls who didn’t flinch when the weight of it all spilled out. Bridgy, ever the gentle one, rested her head on his knee, her eyes brimming with the kind of empathy only a dog could give. Sol sat beside him, stiff and watchful, as if standing guard over the pieces of Shayne that still remained intact.
“It’s just us, huh?” Shayne muttered, scratching Bridgy’s ears. “Just us against the world.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken those words without choking on them. Four and a half years. Four and a half years since the bedroom where he’d held her hand for the last time. Four and a half years of waking up to an empty bed, of cooking dinner for one and watching it go cold because he’d lost his appetite. Four and a half years of people saying, “She wouldn’t want you to be sad,” as if grief could be turned off like a tap.
It wasn’t that he didn’t try. He went to work, made small talk with strangers, and even smiled when he had to. But inside, he carried the weight of her absence everywhere. It showed up in the mundane moments – the way her laugh no longer echoed through the house; the scent of her perfume that had long since faded from the bedroom; the way he instinctively reached for her hand in the middle of the night only to find nothing but air.
But it wasn’t enough, not always. He still felt like a man walking through the world in black and white, chasing the memory of colour. He missed her in ways he couldn’t articulate, in ways that didn’t make sense. He missed the way she wrinkled her nose at bad jokes; the way she scolded him for leaving the milk out; the way her voice softened when she said his name.
He missed the sound of her humming in the kitchen, that little tune she never seemed to finish. He missed the way she’d sit cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in that old, fraying blanket she refused to replace. He missed the quiet moments most of all, the spaces where no words were needed – just the brush of her hand on his arm, or the way she’d tilt her head to lean on his shoulder during a movie. Those were the moments that made life feel full, and without them, he felt like a hollowed-out version of himself.
Sometimes, he caught glimpses of her in the smallest things. The sunlight streaming through the window in the late afternoon reminded him of the way it used to catch in her hair, turning it golden. The smell of freshly brewed coffee could almost convince him she was in the next room, scrolling her phone like she always did in the mornings. And sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could almost hear her laugh – not the polite kind she reserved for strangers, but the real one; the laugh that started in her chest and spilled out in waves, the one that made him feel like he’d won something just by being the reason for it.
It was cruel, the way the world kept spinning when his had come to a halt. The way the trees still bloomed in the spring, the way the rain still fell, the way strangers still laughed and held hands in the street, all while his hands felt empty.
The unfairness of it sat like a stone in his chest. She was gone, and yet the stars still hung in the sky, indifferent to his grief.
He used to talk to her – out loud, at first. In the early days, when the pain was raw and unfiltered, he’d sit by her favourite chair and tell her everything: how the days had been, how much he missed her, how lost he felt without her. But over time, the words grew harder to say, like they were getting caught somewhere between his throat and his heart. Now, the conversations were silent, spoken only in the quiet corners of his mind.
“I don’t know who I am without you,” he once whispered into the empty room. And that was the crux of it. She wasn’t just a part of his life – she was the anchor that kept him steady, the compass that gave him direction. Without her, he felt adrift, like a ship lost at sea, searching for a lighthouse that no longer existed.
Most nights, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever feel whole again. He hated that word – whole. It implied he’d been broken, and maybe he had. Maybe he was shattered in ways that couldn’t be fixed, pieces of him scattered across the past. And yet, in the quiet, he sometimes heard her voice whispering in the back of his mind. “Keep going, Shayne. Just keep going.”
But going where? To what? He didn’t have an answer. He only had the ache in his chest, the echo of her laughter, and the company of two dogs who didn’t understand his words but somehow seemed to feel the heaviness of his heart.
And maybe that was all he had left: the memories, the weight, and the hope – faint, fragile – that one day he’d learn to carry it all without crumbling.
