It was a Sunday night ritual. Peter, the kids and I would gather in our family room to watch TV or just “chill out” before the start of a new week. And I would polish my fingernails a fire-engine red that matched my lipstick.
I always sat in the big brown swivel lounge chair. I think the fabric was velour, but it is so worn now that I can’t be sure.
When we sold the house the kids grew up in, the chair was relegated to the guest room of our current home. It’s used mostly to hold just ironed-but-not-hung-up-yet clothing.
The other night I offered it to my half-niece and her husband who have moved here for a year while their grown son is treated for cancer at a Boston hospital. They are equipping the temporary home they have rented to be near him with second-hand furniture, and I thought they could use it. They agreed gratefully, and soon our 40-year-old chair will move to a new home.
I feel a bit sad about saying good-bye to my nail-polish chair.