Empty Chairs

Oklahoma City, a couple of years ago. Winter, with a fittingly gray sky. You might stumble upon this place and, not knowing what it was or what brought it into existence, think it a pleasant little park, a patch of green empty that someone managed to squeeze in between the stacks of buildings.

Then you see the chairs. Lots of them. You could count them - there are a lot, but you could do it - but the numbers, they have faces. The chairs are all the same size, but there are a few small ones. Those are impossible to look at.

A small voice: "This is a sad place." You look down and his hand grips yours a little tighter. I had explained those chairs to him, why they were there, what they served to remind us of. It didn't register, of course. Four year old boys can't truly process the horrors that we grownups are capable of. Vans filled with chemicals. Airliners filled with knowing screams. But under a sky the color of granite and the mournful sigh of a cold Midwestern breeze, he understands this much: this is a sad place.

We pile back into the car and drive on, towards warmth and family and holiday celebrations. Years pass. Dark anniversaries are remembered. Wars rage on. The chairs remain empty.