Steven Birenbaum reflects on his decision to give away a piece of furniture with sentimental value after his mother passed away.
After my mother died suddenly and unexpectedly, I had a brief window to choose what to take from her home of 51 years, the house I grew up in.
Entwined in sadness, I went around with blue sticky notes. It was unlikely I’d be back in New York before the house was listed for sale, so I chose mostly smaller stuff: framed art, photo albums, even a Frisbee. On the back of it, my mom, in her looping handwriting, had written my parents’ initials, A&C, encircled by a heart, and 1968, the year before I was born.
Seeing that heart broke mine.
Sitting in the snug living room of my childhood home, processing the surreal nature of the past month’s events, I ran my hands over a handsome leather couch I’d long admired. Made by a top furniture designer in France, its rich brown leather was buttery smooth, the wood frame the most elegant rosewood color I’ve ever seen.
