I can still remember the feeling of my feet dangling, not quite reaching the ground, while wearing my white patent leather shoes. My memories are somewhat hazy, resembling a scene viewed through a misty veil. Yet, I can vividly recall the colors and the way our expansive living room was segmented by built-in curio shelves. One side was the ‘good’ side, while the other, with its brown couches, held a different essence.
The brown couch carried the scent of sleep and lingering perfumes—perhaps Love’s Baby Soft or my mother’s signature fragrance. We were permitted to enjoy bags of popcorn and bowls of Apple Jacks on that side, while the ‘good’ living room was reserved for family gatherings or visitors.
As the brown couches faded into the background, the furniture on the opposite side of the room burst with vibrancy, illuminated by the wall of windows they faced. There was a French provincial-style couch, the hue of ripe pumpkins, soft to the touch like suede boots. I would caress its fabric, repeatedly pushing it back to its original state, entranced by its texture.
That couch had an air of superiority, almost as if it were British and condescending. It had a companion: the orange chair. Adorned with stripes and wooden trim, it was a focal point in my life at that house. In moments of solitude, I would sink into its embrace, draping my legs over the side while diving into the books I had sneakily retrieved from my mother’s bedside.
The chair was a source of conversation, featured in family photographs, and occasionally served as a backdrop for prom pictures. I once shared a long, sweet kiss in that chair, the memory tinged with the taste of peppermint long after.
When my mother relocated to start anew with her new husband, the orange chair found its place in the basement—a regal guest among heaps of Christmas gifts. It became a fixture in my siblings’ lives, a distant relative who visits infrequently yet brings joy with each encounter.
I hadn’t given much thought to the chair until my mother organized a yard sale earlier this summer. My parents were moving to Savannah, Georgia, and I found myself grappling with the reality of my mom living far away.
As I stepped into the garage, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Childhood books, toddler clothes, and cherished plaques awaited their fate. Among the items stood the orange chair, seemingly out of place like a backward cap at a formal event.
“Are you selling the orange chair?” I asked, my voice thick with emotion.
“Yes,” my mom replied, her attention diverted as she organized cash for customers.
I approached the chair, tears welling up in my eyes due to the heat—though I knew it was more than just the weather. I caressed its vibrant fabric and smooth wooden trim, sitting down to savor the sensation one last time. “Take my picture!” I called to my husband, who obliged as I looked up with the sunlight in my eyes.
As the yard sale continued, my mom informed me that someone was interested in the orange chair. “A woman wants it for her daughter, who’s newly married and decorating her home. She was thrilled about the colors and the price.”
A sense of relief washed over me. The chair would live on, perhaps witnessing new stories and experiences, just as it had for me. I imagined it clashing with new prom dresses and capturing the essence of another first kiss. It would serve as a perfect spot for photos with a new grandchild.
“Good,” I whispered, recalling all the cherished moments associated with the chair, from my siblings’ laughter to the games we played around it. While I was saying farewell to the chair, I realized my memories remained untouched and forever valuable.
Though my mom may soon be thousands of miles away, our bond would persist, evolving but never severing. Just like parents, we gradually let go; it’s not abrupt but rather a gentle transition. As I glanced at the last photo of me in the orange chair, sunlight illuminating my face and my mom close by, I felt a comforting warmth.
In conclusion, the act of parting with cherished possessions, like the orange chair, reflects the natural progression of life. As families evolve and move, we must embrace the changes while holding onto our precious memories.
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Keyphrase: Farewell to Childhood Memories
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