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.

Annette perches on the armrest, wool skirt fanned out around her, “Well, David?”

David looks at her through his black, thick-framed glasses. “We’ll take it,” he says in his baritone. The kids yelp, jump up and down, and rub their hands on the plush, bright green velour. David and Annette bring their new furniture home to the spacious living room that holds the piano, the large, wooden record player, and a small, round table with mosaic tiles on the top.

Some 20 years later, the grandchildren loved to make a path with the throw pillows on the carpet, and hop on them from one end of the room to the other, ending at the green chair. There sat one of the aunts or uncles, watching our antics and laughing, while the house filled with the smells of matzah-ball soup, tzimmes, and roast tongue. When the table was cleared, Grandma stretched out in the chair, eyes shut, and we lay on our stomachs playing card games.

When my grandparents sold their house, the green chair traveled to my mother’s office. Sunlight streaming into the quiet room, my mother sat in the green chair, reading or knitting. Perhaps at the edge of her imagination, she heard my sister and I whispering as we played with our dolls. Or perhaps she remembered her father sitting in the chair and reading the paper, as she tiptoed over and kissed him good-night. Or maybe she saw her mother, sitting and working her crossword puzzle as she and her little sisters swung their hula-hoops.

When my parents moved from my childhood home, the green chair found its way into our house, its bright green color at odds with our neutral-shaded living room. How many times have I thought we’ve got to get rid of this thing — with its worn armrests and the material ripping beneath the ottoman? And the cushion is not so cushiony anymore, having supported the weight of 50 years' of sitters.

But this chair is where my grandfather, my mother, my aunts and uncles all sat. And it's where I sit, with my children. It reminds me of the smell of pungent garlic and sour borscht, of the house dappled with the sounds of Yiddish phrases quickly tossed from Grandma to Grandpa with a turn of the head so we wouldn’t understand. A house replete with army dress-up clothes, decks of cards, Rummikub, and endless, dark closets for us to crouch inside. A house permeated with mystery and discovery, where we kids were way too busy to bother with chairs.

“Mommy, can I come up?” Emunah cuddles her dolly and offers me her widest blue eyes.

I scoot to one side of the chair. She plops her short legs beside mine and stretches them out as far as she can on the ottoman, snuggling against my arm. Yaakov notices, drops his cars and climbs onto my lap. The green chair is bursting with the three of us, and I hear the whispers of Grandma Annette and Grandpa David: My child, how beautifully you have grown, and what a lovely mother in the green chair you have become.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 331)