I can still recall the sensation of my feet dangling, adorned in shiny white patent leather shoes. My childhood memories are like distant images, soft and blurred, as if viewed through a sheer veil. Yet, I vividly remember the vibrant hues of our expansive living room, divided neatly by the built-in curio shelves. On one side, we had the “good” side, while the other harbored the well-worn brown couches.
Those brown couches carried the scent of slumber and faint fragrances, perhaps a whiff of Love’s Baby Soft or my mother’s signature perfume, Tova. We were permitted to indulge in bags of popcorn and bowls of Apple Jacks on that side, but the refined living room was strictly off-limits unless we had family gatherings or guests over.
While the brown couches receded into the background, the other side of the room burst with color, thanks to the furniture that caught the light streaming in through the wall of windows. There stood a French provincial couch, reminiscent of plump pumpkins, its surface as soft as suede boots. I would run my fingers over it, marveling at how the fabric returned to its original form after I pressed down on it repeatedly.
That couch was the epitome of elegance—a bit snobby, perhaps. If it could speak, its voice would be British and full of disdain. And right beside it was the eye-catching orange chair. With its striped fabric and wooden trim, I would lightly touch it every time I passed. To me, it was the centerpiece of my life in that home.
When the house was quiet, I would sink into that chair, tossing my legs over the side, and lose myself in books I had “borrowed” from the space between my mom’s mattress and headboard. That chair sparked conversations, played its role in family photos, and served as a backdrop for prom nights.
I even shared a long, sweet kiss in that chair once, my heart racing as hands crept up my back, with the taste of peppermint still lingering in my memory years later. When my mom moved into a new house with her new husband, she took the orange chair with her. It became a regal presence in her basement, piled high with Christmas presents or serving as a prop for candid photos of the grandkids.
Just like me, they were growing up with that orange chair quietly witnessing their adventures, akin to a distant relative you might see infrequently but cherish nonetheless. I hadn’t thought much about the chair until my mom decided to host a yard sale earlier this summer.
You see, my parents are relocating to Savannah, Georgia. I often find myself blurting it out quickly, before the realization that my mom won’t be just a short drive away sinks in. They needed to downsize, and one humid July morning, I stepped into their garage, a haze of nostalgia washing over me.
Childhood books, worn clothes, and cherished mementos were laid out, waiting for new homes. And there it was, on the edge of the collection—the orange chair, seemingly out of place yet still familiar.
“Are you selling the orange chair?” I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” my mom replied, her attention on counting the cash in a cigar box for her customers. I approached the chair, tears brimming in my eyes, but I blamed the early summer heat for my emotional state. I ran my fingers over its colorful fabric and smooth wooden arms before taking a seat, trying to imprint the feeling in my mind.
“Take my picture!” I called out to my husband, who obliged, capturing a moment of me gazing up with sunshine in my eyes.
The sale continued for another day, and on Monday morning, my mom called with news. “Someone is coming for the orange chair today.”
“Oh,” I replied, my heart sinking a little.
“The woman who bought it is decorating her daughter’s new home. She was thrilled about the colors and the price. I couldn’t imagine a better fit for it.”
Suddenly, my heart felt lighter. The chair would find a new home, filled with laughter and new stories. Perhaps it would clash with prom dresses yet again or witness another first kiss. It would be the perfect spot for a picture with a new grandbaby.
“Good,” I whispered. I reminisced about my feet not reaching the floor when we first got it, the countless photos taken in that chair, and the games of tag we played around it. Memories of my siblings and our childhood flooded back, reminding me that while I was saying goodbye to the chair, I was not letting go of the memories it held. Those would always be with me.
Even with my mom moving miles away, it doesn’t mean she’s not close at heart. Change is gradual; it’s a gentle shift rather than a sudden leap. I find comfort in the last photo of me in that orange chair, sun in my eyes, my mom just a few feet away.
For more insights on parenting and family life, check out this post on our blog about tips for navigating those tricky moments. When considering your own journey toward family, you might also explore these reputable resources like at-home insemination kits or visit Kindbody for comprehensive pregnancy guidance.
In summary, while we may bid farewell to physical objects from our past, the cherished memories they evoke remain forever intertwined with our lives.
Leave a Reply