The chair sits empty again tonight.
You set the table on autopilot, counting plates, arranging glasses, and then you reach that spot. The one that used to hold them. The one that will never quite feel filled again no matter who sits there. Your hands pause. Your breath catches. And just like that, the grief floods back in like it was waiting right beneath the surface all along.
I see you. The woman setting a place for memory this Ramadan.
Everyone speaks of this month as a time of joy and gathering. The iftar invitations pile up. The family dinners stretch late into the night. And you smile through it all because you do not want to dampen anyone’s spirit. But inside you are counting the minutes until you can be alone with your tears after tarawееh.
The emptiness hits differently during Ramadan doesn’t it? The recipes they used to make. The voice that called everyone to the table. The way they would wait for you to start eating before taking their first bite. The absence is loudest in the moments that were once filled with presence.
Here is what I want you to know tonight. It is okay if your Ramadan looks different this year. It is okay if the worship feels heavier. It is okay if the tears come more than the smiles. Grief is not a lack of faith. It is proof of love that still lives in your chest.
And when the sadness feels too heavy, hold onto this. They are not hungry where they are. They are not tired. They are feasting in a place where no fast needs breaking and every prayer is answered. Your longing for them is a dua they can feel.
Every date you give in their memory, every Quran you read and gift to their soul, every quiet prayer you whisper after midnight it reaches them. You cannot fill their chair. But you can keep sending light their way.
May Allah wrap them in mercy and wrap you in patience strong enough to carry both your grief and your hope. You are not alone tonight.
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