I can recall my small feet dangling above the floor, adorned in shiny white patent leather shoes. The images from that time are hazy, as though seen through a thin veil. Yet, I can still picture the vibrant colors of our expansive living room, divided neatly by the built-in curio shelves. There was the “good” side, reserved for special occasions, and then there was the other side, where the brown couches resided.
The brown couch carried the scent of sleep and lingering perfumes—perhaps Love’s Baby Soft or my mother’s signature fragrance, Tova. We were permitted to munch on popcorn and enjoy bowls of Apple Jacks there, but the elegant living room was off-limits unless we had guests or family meetings.
Where the brown couches faded into the background, the furniture on the opposite side of the room burst with color, illuminated by the wall of windows. The French provincial couch, with its pumpkin-like hue, felt as soft as suede boots. I loved to run my fingers over its surface, pushing the material back and forth, relishing its luxurious texture. That couch exuded an air of superiority, as if it were British and looked down upon its surroundings.
Its companion was the orange chair, the bold centerpiece of my life in that house. With its striped upholstery and delicate wood trim, I would lightly touch it as I passed by, a habit that soon became second nature. It wasn’t just a piece of furniture; it was a sanctuary. In moments of solitude, I would curl up in that chair, draping my legs over the side while losing myself in the books I’d snuck from the space between the mattress and headboard of my mother’s bed.
That orange chair was a witness to many moments: family photos, playful games of tag, and a sweet first kiss, where hands crept up my back. Years later, the scent of peppermint would still waft through my mind whenever I glanced at it. When my mother moved to start anew with her second husband, that chair was the only piece she chose to keep. It found a place in the basement, where it became the backdrop for holiday photos, with my siblings and young relatives growing up alongside it.
This summer, my mother decided to hold a yard sale as she prepared to relocate to Savannah, Georgia. I often find myself whispering the words, trying to fathom a reality where my mother is no longer just ten minutes away. One humid July morning, I stepped into their garage, a maze of nostalgia awaiting me—childhood books, toddler clothes, and plaques that once graced our walls were all lined up for sale.
And there it was, sitting quietly on the edge of the collection—the orange chair, seemingly out of place, much like a baseball cap at a formal event. “Are you selling the orange chair?” I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” my mother replied, her attention fixed on sorting bills for her customers. I approached the chair, feeling a wave of emotion wash over me. I caressed the colorful fabric and the smooth wood trim, then sat down, committing the feel of it to memory. “Take my picture!” I called to my husband, who obliged with a snapshot of me gazing up, the sun casting a warm glow over my face.
The sale continued for another day, and on Monday, my mother called to share an update. “Someone is coming for the orange chair today.”
“Oh.”
“The woman who bought it wanted it for her daughter, who just got married and is decorating her new home. She was thrilled about the colors and the price. I couldn’t think of a better place for it.”
A sense of relief washed over me. The chair would continue to be used and cherished, perhaps even ridiculed for its vibrant colors. I envisioned new stories being created, similar to my own, as it witnessed another first kiss or served as a backdrop for family photos with a new grandchild.
“Good,” I whispered, reflecting on all the memories—my feet not touching the floor when we first got the chair, the games we played around it, and my annoyance when it had to be moved for vacuuming. Those memories flooded back like a wave, reminding me that while I was saying goodbye to the chair, I was not letting go of the past.
Distance doesn’t diminish the bond we share with loved ones; it merely shifts its geography. As I glance at that last photo of me in the orange chair, I realize that my mother’s presence will always be felt, no matter where she is.
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In summary, as we navigate the emotional terrain of growing up, saying goodbye to cherished items like the orange chair can be bittersweet. These objects hold memories that shape our identities and connections with loved ones, reminding us that while we may part with physical items, the memories remain forever etched in our hearts.