An Empty Seat at a Concert
How many of us go to a concert and dwell on one single empty seat in that venue? In the normal course of events, I don’t. Or should I say, I didn’t, until recently. I have thought about why aren’t we filling more of these seats? Or I’ve thought about how we can possibly squeeze one more walk-in into a non-existent seat. Thinking about one individual seat the way I have recently? It didn’t happen until after Sheila died.
As a young couple we started attending folk/traditional music concerts in a local venue together. As soon as we had children, we would take them when it was possible, or hire a babysitter for an evening out and still attend. It was spottier when the children where little as lack of time or babysitter, illness, or just plain crazy busy took over. However, we still made it to the local festival year in and year out. As the girls got older it became a little easier to attend concerts on a regular basis again.
We volunteered as regular “crew” for the festivals, Forrest, and I as adult crew members, and all three girls as junior crew members. Crew and junior crew photos were taken at the pre-festival meeting and then they were hung at the concert venue. If you look at the photos you can see our children growing up in those photos. Eventually the oldest and youngest daughters were out of the house and Sheila was still at home.
Now Forrest and I could volunteer at the concert venue as well as at the festival. Since Forrest had a good head for figures, he would check folk in at the door. I often assisted there or at the performer sale table. Sheila would occupy a seat up front. She soon had several board members sitting with her, or a sister who might be home. Board members or sisters also might be volunteering on any given night. That did not stop Sheila from engaging with other concert goers that also arrived early and sat nearby. It would become apparent many years later just how much she did engage with others.
For a while Sheila’s older sister was employed by the folk/traditional music venue while she was waiting for her first ministerial “call.” At that point older sister sat with her on a regular basis. Sheila, for all she liked to be the center of attention, was very proud of her sisters and she’d cede front and center over to them when it was their turn to shine. We would see this when one of the other girls were in musicals, bagpipe competitions, fiddling gigs, preaching or anything that focused on her siblings’ abilities. I’d hear Sheila proudly announce, “that’s my sister!”
Then came the day that younger sister was settled in a traditional arts job in D.C. and older sister received the Call. Our household was as empty a nest as it would be for the foreseeable future. We were back to the routine of Sheila being up front, and Sheila said to me, “I don’t want to be alone. I’m part of this family.” It was as close as she could come to asking me to sit with her. So, we entered the years when Sheila and I would sit together with at least one of the other friends she had acquired from the Board of Directors of this venue. However, if none of those friends were there, she knew she would have me sitting with her.
Sheila’s vision was limited, she had no peripheral vision and we had been unsuccessful in getting her to wear glasses. They really didn’t seem to improve her quality of life and it got so she was getting more creative in finding hiding places for them. At what point do you say I give up? We persisted for more years than she liked, until we decided she had a right to tell us no. She was content with the vision she had with no glasses, we had to suck it up and decide she had the right to autonomy in a world where she had little control. We raised all the girls to gain age-appropriate control of their existence and Sheila was no exception. If glasses were more distracting to her than a benefit it was time to listen to her. It also meant if she wanted to sit in the front row so she could see better, I would support her decision.
When Sheila died in October, for a few months we stopped attending concerts in-house. We would stream the concerts. A capability thanks to the pandemic. Streaming concerts was unheard of pre-pandemic, but this venue was quick to do a one-eighty and in three months’ time the closed down in-person 2020 festival was up and running on their regular last weekend in June. They started streaming concerts and once in-person concerts was a regular thing again, they continued to offer a streaming option for anyone that cannot make it to the venue. We took advantage of this when grief was overwhelming. For now, our nest was truly empty.
However, knowing I wanted to see a couple of the December concerts in-person, we decided to attend a late November concert in-person knowing it would be a smaller crowd. Grief is a funny thing (not really, it’s an awful thing, but just go with me here) it grabs ahold of everyone in different ways. I knew, for me, the longer I put off getting back out into public, the harder it would be for me to take that step. I knew people attending a more sparsely populated concert would be the very people that knew us best and some would also be grieving in their own ways. I knew I would not be alone in my grief and that I would have support. It seemed the right time to return.
I did not get through the experience without shedding a few tears. Every single d@mn time someone said, “sorry for your loss,” I wanted to shout, no more so than me! But I was still comforted by those four words. I knew that the person saying them truly felt the loss, too. I fully planned to sit in the back with Forrest. Since he is the person in charge of tickets and money, he feels a responsibility to stay in the back in case there are latecomers. But the one board member that usually sat with Sheila and I arrived. She and I were in tears as we greeted and then she asked me to sit up front with her. How could I say no? I couldn’t I knew she hurt, too, and missing Sheila was a reality for both of us. We sat up front. The chair next to her, where Sheila used to sit remained empty that evening. And it has remained empty for all the concerts between late November until the first concert in March. It was still empty during the first half of the concert.
I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was that the person behind me came up and sat in that empty chair for the second half of the concert. That empty chair had begun to represent the pain of our loss. Silly? Perhaps. But people feel what they feel and for me it had become a physical reminder of our loss. I felt such relief not to see an empty chair that used to be occupied by this larger-than-life personality. I enjoyed the group we saw last night—they had high energy and were so adorable. Despite feeling sad not seeing Sheila in that empty chair. Having someone sit there allowed me to relax and really enjoy the second half in a way I couldn’t during the first half of the concert.
Two steps forward, one step back we keep facing new little hurdles. Some that bring acute grief rushing back. Some that remind us of loss. But there are also the memories of how much Sheila loved high energy bands, like the one at our most recent concert. Empty chairs are so symbolic of loss for me. Having it filled by another brought solace.