I recall the sensation of not quite reaching the floor while wearing shiny white patent leather shoes. My memories from that time are somewhat indistinct, as if viewed through a soft, hazy lens. Yet, I can vividly picture the colors and the way our expansive living room was divided by built-in curio shelves. One side was inviting; the other, dominated by brown couches.
The brown couch exuded the scent of sleep and lingering fragrances. Perhaps it was the nostalgic aroma of Love’s Baby Soft or my mother’s Tova. On that side, we were permitted to enjoy bags of popcorn and bowls of Apple Jacks, while the more refined living room was off-limits unless we had family meetings or guests visiting.
As the brown couches receded into the background, the vibrant colors of the furniture on the other side illuminated the room, thanks to the large windows that faced it. There was a French provincial couch, reminiscent of round, plump pumpkins, that felt as soft as suede boots. I would run my fingers over its fabric, watching it return to its original state as I pushed down on it repeatedly.
That couch had an air of superiority about it. If it could speak, its voice would undoubtedly be British and slightly haughty. It also had a companion: the orange chair. This chair, with its striped pattern and wooden trim, became a focal point in my life within that house.
In moments of solitude, I would sink into it, draping my legs over the side while reading books I’d ‘borrowed’ from the space between my mom’s mattress and headboard. The chair was a catalyst for conversations, a backdrop for family photos, and even a prop during prom. I once shared a sweet kiss in that chair, and years later, the taste of peppermint would linger in my memory each time I glanced at it.
When my mother moved to a new house, the orange chair was selected to accompany her, finding its place in the basement like a distinguished guest. We would pile Christmas gifts on it or pose the boys between its wide arms for candid shots at Grandma’s house. Just like me, they were growing up with the chair in the background, akin to a distant cousin whose company you cherish despite infrequent visits.
I hadn’t given the chair much thought until my mother held a yard sale earlier this summer. My parents are relocating to Savannah, Georgia, and I often find myself hastily mentioning it, bracing for the reality of my mom living far away.
As they began to empty their home, I stepped into their garage one steamy July morning, surrounded by items steeped in nostalgia: childhood books, toddler clothes, and wall plaques—all for sale. Among these memories sat the orange chair, positioned somewhat awkwardly, like an unfashionable cap at a formal event.
“Are you selling the orange chair?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” my mother replied, focused on the cash she was organizing.
I approached the chair, the heat of the morning providing an excuse for the tears that welled up in my eyes. I caressed the vibrant fabric and the smooth wooden edges before sinking into it one last time, savoring the texture beneath my fingers. “Take my picture!” I called to my partner, who came over and captured my image, sun shining bright in my eyes.
The yard sale continued for another day, and on Monday, my mom phoned with an update. “Someone is coming for the orange chair today,” she shared.
“Oh,” I replied, trying to mask my feelings.
“The buyer wants it for her daughter, who just married and is decorating her new home. She was so excited about the vibrant colors and the price; I couldn’t think of a better new home for it.”
In that moment, my heart felt lighter. The chair would continue its journey, being used and appreciated, perhaps even becoming a subject of laughter for its bold colors and distinguished demeanor. I hoped it would bear witness to another first kiss, becoming a backdrop for new memories, much like it did for me.
I whispered a soft “goodbye,” reflecting on the memories that would remain with me forever. Those moments are not for sale. Even as my mother moves thousands of miles away, our connection remains; it’s simply a shift in geography. As I sneak a glance at that last picture of me in the orange chair, the sunlight illuminating my face, I realize that she is always with me.
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In summary, saying goodbye to the orange chair symbolizes a farewell to a cherished piece of my childhood, yet the memories associated with it are eternal. As I navigate this new chapter, I cherish the bond I share with my mother, even from afar.