In Pittsburgh, a lonely chair on the curb can stop your heart—not broken or abandoned, but waiting. Waiting for a honk, a memory, someone who will never return. A handwritten sign invites passing drivers: “Honk for Grandma,” “Honk for Mike,” “Honk for Our Troops.” Each honk is brief but carries the weight of remembrance.
The “Honking Chair” blends grief into daily life. Ordinary chairs—kitchen chairs, folding chairs—become presence, linking past and present, absence and acknowledgment. They transform passing cars into witnesses, traffic into ritual. The sound is not noise—it’s proof that the lost are seen, remembered, not vanished.
Rain, snow, sun—they endure. The chair waits, fragile but defiant, holding space for someone gone, while the city moves on. It doesn’t promise closure or healing, only fleeting connection. And sometimes, that is enough. Sometimes, all grief needs is a honk that says: we remember.