When I was 13, my brother got cancer, he was 22. In early December 1997, my mother told me that there was nothing more the doctors could do. His time was running out. Then you stand there, on Christmas Eve, with lights on the table and ribs in the oven. Your brother pretends to throw you down the stairs and gives you the Spice Girls for Christmas, while emphasizing that you have bad taste in music. You stand there in the kitchen and laugh. But you know that this, this is the last time. My brother died on 16 January 1998. The following Christmas was the first Christmas where I didn’t go to bed at night. Instead I sat looking out into the black night and wondering if Christmas would ever be nice again when his chair was empty. That Christmas night I felt infinitely lonely in a world where everyone was seemingly happy. But as I got older, I realized I wasn’t alone. Everyone has an empty chair on Christmas Eve. Many have several. Some only have empty chairs left. In everyday life it doesn’t seem so good, but when the whole world covers up for a festive dinner and meets with their friends and families, it is there. Regardless of whether it has been one or fifty years since it became empty. And if you are new to the crowd with empty chairs, there is something nice about knowing that all of us who walk there, in the Christmas-happy streets and laugh with mulled wine in hand, we all have an empty chair. Regardless of whether your empty chair is due to death, or whether your people have disappeared in bitter conflicts, illness, drugs or other things, your chair is as empty as ours. In that way, Christmas is merciless, because it shows so clearly that time has passed and that someone has been lost. Those who were here last year, but who are not coming this year. Those who have been with before. Our own role in the Christmas party. The problem with the empty chairs at Christmas is that we don’t talk about them. We mention them in passing, yes, along with a sentence about Christmas not being good for everyone. But we don’t talk about them. It is as if we fear that remembering means that we will not move forward. The fact is that we move forward because we remember. December is a month of gift-giving and Christmas stress, but also a month of blue hour and beautiful light. With silence and space. A month that actually has room for both Christmas laughter and empty chairs. The fact is that empty chairs scream a little less if they are allowed to stand in front. So Merry Christmas. For both you and your empty chair. And know that this Christmas, you can both come. Also read:
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Everyone has an empty chair on Christmas Eve – Expression
