It reminds me of the smell of pungent garlic and sour borscht, of the house dappled with the sounds of Yiddish phrases
On Shabbos morning, cup of coffee in hand, I cuddle up in the green chair, sinking deeply into the cushion. Everyone knows the chair is mine on Shabbos, but I will share — it’s wide enough to hold two or three of us.
Right now my children are too busy for chairs. At my feet, Emunah dresses her new doll; Yaakov and Moshe Yosef construct Lego passageways along the wooden floor. Their excited voices buoy me this quiet Shabbos morning; I close my eyes, listen to their voices, and think of the humble beginnings of the green chair.
It’s 1955 when Grandpa David and Grandma Annette, five kids in tow, walk into the furniture showroom. Soon, four kids jump from chair to bed, bouncing up and down on the plastic-sheathed mattresses, tumbling to the floor and jumping on again. The oldest child — my mother — rolls her eyes and walks away from the others, pretending not to know them.
Annette tries fruitlessly to shush the kids as she walks down the row of couches, patent leather clutch held tightly to her hip. She first selects the cream-colored couch, glinting with gold, shaped like a sliver of moon. Then David spies the fuzzy, bright-green chair. He sits down, puts his feet up, and sinks into the cushion. Two little boys jump on his lap, while a daughter climbs up the back and wriggles her way onto his shoulders. He puts his head back and closes his eyes.
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