There’s a chair in my living room which has a long history in my family. It’s been around for so many moments, moves and milestones for our family, we’ve given it a name—the Orange Chair.
The folklore of the Orange Chair goes like this. My parents, back when they were young, carefree, well-rested newlyweds, bought the chair as one of their first home purchases. The chair has endured spit-up from when my sister and I were babies, and likely lots of drool. I remember playing on the chair as a kid, sitting on its sturdy arms, jumping on its cushion. Years later, when my sister and I were going off to college and my parents were once again carefree and well-rested, the Orange Chair followed us to campus. It has been passed back and forth between me and my sister as we move from apartment to apartment, to finally our first homes. Today, it sits in my living room, a temporary home. Despite the memories it holds and its lasting faithfulness, I can’t say that orange is my favorite color or that it matches anything else in our house. We’ll find a home for it, even if it goes back to my parents’ house—my mom made me promise to not get rid of it.