• When it snows, I go back to when we would all sit around the fire,
    telling storeis of happy times.
    We would laugh and forget the rest of the world.
    And when the fire simmered to coals of dark orange and white,
    she would tell a story.
    Of all the stories of the night, it was the most anticipated.
    And even the fire quieted from its endless crackling.
    Her story would always leave us longing for next year.
    Now this year, we gather around the fire,
    and talk of happier times and also of rememberance.
    All of us longing for the woman in the empty chair.