I can still picture my small feet dangling above the ground, adorned in shiny white patent leather shoes. My youth is a hazy tapestry of colors and feelings, like a dream viewed through a delicate veil. I vividly recall our expansive living room, divided at the built-in curio shelves into two distinct domains: the “good” side and the other, where the brown couches resided.
The brown couch, a relic of cozy nights, carried scents of sleep mixed with remnants of perfumes—perhaps Love’s Baby Soft or my mom’s Tova. That side of the room was where we enjoyed popcorn and bowls of Apple Jacks, while the well-appointed living room remained off-limits except for family gatherings or when guests arrived.
In contrast, the other half of the room burst with light, thanks to the wall of windows. There, a French provincial couch in pumpkin orange beckoned. It felt like the softest suede beneath my fingertips, a tactile delight that I would play with endlessly, pushing the fabric back and forth. The couch had an air of sophistication, almost snobbish, as if it spoke in a posh British accent.
Its sidekick, the striped orange chair with wooden trim, was a constant in my life, a focal point of our family memories. When the house was quiet, I would sink into its embrace, legs draped over the side, lost in the stories I had pilfered from the space between my mom’s mattress and headboard. The chair witnessed countless family photos, served as a backdrop for prom pictures, and even bore witness to a sweet kiss I shared, leaving a lingering taste of peppermint in my memory.
When my mom decided to move to a new home with her new husband, that orange chair was chosen to accompany her. It found a new home in the basement, a regal piece amidst piles of Christmas presents and a stage for candid shots of my kids, just as I had grown up with it in the background.
This summer, however, everything changed when my parents prepared to relocate to Savannah, Georgia. I’ve been saying this quickly, bracing myself for the reality of my mom living far away—no longer just a ten-minute drive. As they began clearing out their home, I stepped into their garage one sweltering July morning, surrounded by echoes of our past—books from our childhood, clothes from our toddler years, and plaques that once hung on our walls.
And there it was—the orange chair, as if out of place, like a backward baseball cap at a Kentucky Derby. “Are you selling the orange chair?” I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” my mom replied, distracted by her efforts to sort dollar bills for customers. I approached the chair, the heat of the morning an excuse for the tears that welled in my eyes. I traced my fingers over its vibrant fabric and smooth wood, then sank into its familiar embrace, asking my husband to take my picture.
The yard sale continued for another day, and on Monday morning, my mom called with news. “Someone is coming for the orange chair today,” she said. “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!”
At that moment, my heart lifted. The chair would live on, perhaps becoming part of another family’s memories, sparking stories and laughter just as it had for me. I whispered a soft goodbye, reflecting on the countless memories—my siblings, our childhood antics, the joy and chaos that filled our lives.
While I bid farewell to the chair, I hold on tightly to the memories it represents. Distance doesn’t diminish our connection; it simply reshapes it. As I glance at the last photo of me in that orange chair, sunlight shining through, I feel my mom’s presence, always near, even if miles apart.
This article was originally published on June 6, 2015. For more insights about home insemination, visit this post.