Mom's Chair

Growing up, my mom was a single parent of 4 kids. She always had at least 1 of us tagging along to her errands, visits with friends and even simple trips to the grocery store. But Friday nights were different. Friday night was bowling league for mom, which meant I would be home with my built in babysitter Peggy. We would have the standard frozen pizzas and milk for dinner as a family before the hectic night. It was a night of organized chaos.




Getting out this one night a week was a routine but also special for mom. I used to love watching her get ready to go out. She had an old ratty green chair that was placed in front of her dresser. Avocado green, bench seat, with a short 4-5 inch back and most likely found on a curb somewhere. She would sit on this chair, doing her hair, applying her makeup and most importantly making chit chat with me. In the younger days, I could squeeze next to her with ease and watch the transformation of “single mom” to “going out mom”. We would talk about anything and everything. Sometimes I would stroll over to her jewelry case, (that really didn’t have much for jewels) and would ask questions about old broaches (that I never saw her wear) or someone’s baby teeth (she WAS the Tooth fairy after all) and all her sobriety coins. The whole time, mom would be sitting with her legs crossed, yet tucked underneath her, on that old bench chair.


For all my years, when I needed to talk to my mom, I could find her sitting on that same green chair. To me, she was the strongest woman I could ever imagine being. Being too big to sit on the chair next to her, I would sit on the floor and lean my head on her lap. My tears would make marks on her pants as she stroked my head and tucked my hair behind my ears. She always had something to say or a story to tell me that would make me not feel so alone. That chair was her throne. I truly think it gave her extra powers.



After mom passed away, I took the chair from her room. It moved with me from Davenport to Long Grove to Monticello. My husband (now Ex) wouldn’t dare get rid of it, he knew the priceless value of it. The avocado green linen was ripped, stuffing depleted and exposed bare wood was unsightly. One Christmas, he surprised me by having it reupholstered. It now boasted a beautiful tapestry with light colored flowers and it even had a skirt around the base. It never had a skirt in the past. Much like my mom, it wasn’t overly feminine, just strong. I was touched by his thoughtfulness and was appreciative, but the chair no longer looked like my moms chair. I couldn’t see or feel the presence of her. It was so feminine I almost didn’t want to sit on it for fear of getting it dirty. The chair moved with me to Stoughton and then to Oregon. It had it’s own place, in a corner of my bedroom, dutiful holding the extra pillows from the bed. But it wasn’t my mom’s chair.



Recently, the stresses in my life tore down my strength to the point I went to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. I needed to be alone, yet I needed hear the voice I hadn’t heard in 12 years. I walked over to the chair and pulled off the pillows. I laid my head on the chair as if to hear it speak to me. With my eyes closed, I reached below the dressing and grabbed the legs of the chair. The nicks were still in place along with the smooth lacquered finish. I held on to those legs, with my ear on the seat, imagining the voice I was so desperate to hear. Even though my hair didn’t move, I swore I felt it go behind my ears. My tears soaked the cushion, but I don’t think it minded. In fact, I think the saline gave the chair new life, empowerment. I talked with mom and her words came to me so clearly. I was able to gather myself, dry the tears and stand up straight. I left the chair, knowing I would be back another day to hear the voice and feel the brush of my hair.