There’s a familiar ache to an empty chair at the holiday table. Usually, that space carries the weight of memory—those we miss, those whose laughter still echoes if the room gets quiet enough, those who shaped us in ways we only now understand.

Most years, that’s the Sunday Pour: the people gone but deeply present.

And this year, their absence felt heavier than usual.

The Ones Who Should Still Be Here

My mom has been gone since 2007, but she remains stubbornly present every single Thanksgiving. It’s impossible not to feel her in the kitchen—her recipes are the backbone of the meal. Her mashed potatoes, her dressing, the small things she perfected that none of us will ever get exactly right. She’s not at the table, but she’s always there.

Then there are my two dads—my father and my stepfather—both of whom we lost in the last two Decembers. Thanksgiving has now become the doorway into the hardest stretch of the year. Every fourth Thursday in November comes with a quiet reminder: In the next two weeks, you lose them again. The two most important men in my life, gone in the same season, and that grief has settled into the rhythm of the holidays, whether I want it to or not.

And this year brought yet another empty place.
Daryl’s mother, Ann, passed in September. This was our first Thanksgiving without her, and even though life continued around the table, her absence felt unmistakable. She was part of the fabric of our family, and threads like that don’t disappear quietly.

And Then the Empty Chair Is Mine

But for all that quiet grief, for all those memories woven into our meal, this year the empty chair everyone noticed… was mine.

My Thanksgiving plate—beautifully prepared with Lizzi, barely eaten thanks to an untimely stomach revolt.

After spending all day cooking with Lizzi—mixing, stirring, chopping, basting—I finally sat down, admired my picture-perfect plate, and immediately felt my stomach reject the entire concept of Thanksgiving food.

One look at that gorgeous meal and I knew: it was not happening.
Not a bite. Not a nibble. Nothing.

Minutes later I excused myself. Ten minutes after that, I was in bed. And for the rest of the night, the only “contribution” I made to the holiday was repeatedly getting up to sprint to the bathroom. I barely managed a goodbye when Lizzi, Talon, and Sully headed home.

It didn’t quite unseat Thanksgiving 1986—when I spent the holiday on guard duty during Air Force tech school—but it came close. At least in 1986, I remember wanting to eat.

So yes, this wasn’t the poetic kind of “empty chair” I meant when the idea first came to mind. But absence is absence—even when caused by a sudden and aggressive gastrointestinal rebellion.

What I Take From It

Even a miserable Thanksgiving carries its own kind of gratitude.

I may not have been physically present for long, but the people I love were. The food I helped prepare was part of their memories. And the empty chairs around our table weren’t symbols of despair—they were reminders of connection. Of recipes carried forward. Of stories retold. Of people who mattered deeply and still do.

Next year, Lord willing, I’ll sit down with a plate, a working stomach, and a quiet thankfulness for the ones around me and the ones who aren’t. And when I raise my glass, it will be for all of them:

The moms and dads who shaped us.
The family we miss.
The family who remain.
And even the Thanksgiving where I was present in spirit, horizontal in reality.

Because sometimes the Sunday Pour isn’t about bourbon at all.
It’s about acknowledging every empty chair—and giving thanks for the lives that once filled them.

Copyright © 2025 Doug DeBolt.