Saying Farewell to a Piece of My Childhood

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I can still picture my tiny feet dangling in those shiny white patent leather shoes. My memories are a bit hazy, like looking through a sheer curtain, but I can vividly recall the colors and how our massive living room was divided right at the built-in shelves. There was the “good side,” and then there was the other side, the one with the brown couches.

Those brown couches smelled of sleep and hints of cologne—perhaps Love’s Baby Soft or my mom’s Tova. We could munch on popcorn and snack on Apple Jacks over there, but the fancy living room was off-limits unless there was a family gathering or company over.

The other side of the room was brighter, thanks to the large windows and the vibrant furniture. There was a French provincial couch, a lovely pumpkin color, so soft it felt like suede. I’d run my fingers over the fabric, pushing it back and forth, fascinated by its texture. That couch had an air of sophistication—if it could talk, I imagined it would have a posh British accent.

And then there was the orange chair. It was striped and had a wooden trim I would gently touch as I passed by. To me, it was the centerpiece of my childhood in that house. Sometimes, when things were quiet, I’d flop down in the chair, throw my legs over the side, and read books I had snuck from the space between my mom’s mattress and headboard. It was a conversation starter, a prop for family photos, and the backdrop for my prom pictures.

I remember being kissed in that chair, a sweet moment that lingered with me long after. Years later, I could still sense the taste of peppermint whenever I saw it. When my mom moved to a new house to start fresh with her new husband, she took the orange chair with her. It became a regal fixture in her basement, where we’d pile Christmas gifts on it and take cute photos of the kids with Grandma.

As my siblings and I grew up, the orange chair remained a constant, like a distant cousin you only see at family reunions but cherish nonetheless. I didn’t think much about it until my mom decided to have a yard sale this summer.

You see, my parents are relocating to Savannah, Georgia. I’ve started saying it quickly, almost holding my breath, as I imagine a world where my mom isn’t just ten minutes away. They needed to downsize, so I stepped into their garage one sweltering July morning, greeted by a wave of nostalgia. There were books from our childhood, clothes from our toddler days, and little mementos waiting for new homes.

And right there among it all was the orange chair. It seemed almost out of place, like a backward cap at a fancy event. “Are you selling the orange chair?” I croaked.

“Yes,” my mom replied, focused on counting money for her customers. I approached the chair, the heat of the morning making tears well up in my eyes. I brushed my hand over its colorful fabric and the smooth wood trim, feeling the memories flood back. I plopped down and asked my husband to take a picture of me, sun shining in my eyes.

The sale continued for another day. That Monday, my mom called to let me know someone was interested in the orange chair. “The woman who bought it wants it for her daughter. She’s just married and decorating her new home. She was so excited about the colors and the price!”

Suddenly, I felt lighter. The chair would live on, filled with new moments and stories, just like mine. It would witness new proms, first kisses, and family photos, becoming part of another family’s history.

I whispered “Good” and thought of my childhood memories—running around it during tag, the countless pictures taken in that chair, and how I disliked moving it for vacuuming. Although I was saying goodbye to the chair, I realized I wouldn’t be parting with the memories. Those are priceless.

Even though my mom will be miles away, it doesn’t mean she isn’t with me. It’s a gentle shift in our relationship rather than a complete break. I find myself looking at that last picture of me in the orange chair, with the sun in my eyes and my mom just a few feet away.

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Summary

This reflective piece explores the bittersweet emotions tied to childhood memories and the process of letting go of cherished items. The author reminisces about an orange chair that was a central part of her upbringing, symbolizing the memories of family gatherings and personal milestones. As her parents prepare to move, she learns to embrace change, understanding that while physical distance may increase, the emotional bond remains strong.