The Orange Recliner

A memory that is barely a memory at all.

Blaire Erskine
Sep 9, 2018 · 4 min read

The orange recliner was a dayplayer in my life before becoming the cornerstone of my living room, dutifully swallowing my keys and causing momentary panic each time I visited my parents for dinner. When my dad called and asked if I could use a recliner for my new apartment, I was sitting on a short-stack of my thickest books.

“Absolutely.”

The next day, my dad and stepmom arrived with a truck-bed full of furniture. A cozy armchair I’ve since spotted in Zack and Miri Make a Porno, an ottoman to match, and the orange recliner. Suddenly, my living room was transformed from that of a poor, twentysomething improv student to that of a poor, twentysomething improv student whose parents had recently purchased a new living room suite. I felt I had arrived to adulthood.

And so, the orange recliner and I formed a relationship which would extend far beyond frantic car key cavity searches, though those still happened, too. Evenings saw many an hour wasted on cheap wine and reality television. The orange recliner molded itself to my body as I slept, fetal position, blue light infiltrating my dreams. It cradled me as I grieved the relationship around which I had built the beginnings of my life. It absorbed every salty tear, each ounce of spilled bodega wine, all my whispered prayers. It smelled faintly of cat piss and cigarettes. It became my altar.


One of my fondest memories of the orange recliner is barely a memory at all, just a small moment. Just a glimpse. It was some day in January, and I was sad — the kind of all-consuming, melodramatic sadness that seems silly in retrospect. Nevertheless, I was certain I’d spend the rest of my days stuck in this sticky, sad web of a life I’d weaved for myself. When my dad called and asked if I’d like for him to bring by a chicken sandwich for lunch, I was sitting in the orange recliner.

“No, thanks.”

He brought it anyway.

An hour later, my half-eaten chicken sandwich was growing cold atop my dusty coffee table, the moisture from my fast food soda forming a ring on the wood as a coaster sat barely an inch away. I sat, knees-to-chest, watching a Friends rerun. “The One With the Prom Video,” I think. It doesn’t matter, because that’s not the memory that is barely a memory at all. This is:

To my left, in the orange recliner, is my dad. Eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly, bare feet pointing in either direction. I listen to his snores against the live studio audience, watch his belly move up and down with his breaths, breathe in the familiar scent of whatever cologne he’s worn for all my life. I’ve always meant to ask him the name, always forgotten until it’s too late.

I can’t remember what we talked about that day, what the weather was like, what I was wearing. I can’t remember if I ever finished my sandwich, if I cleaned the wet ring from my cup, if I said thank you, so much, for bringing me lunch. For being there. For snoring softly in the orange recliner.

Like I said, it’s barely a memory at all. Just a small moment. Just a glimpse.


A year and a half later, I’m sitting in the orange recliner. I’m wearing a dress with tiny pink flowers printed all over. I’ve just finished work for the day. I’m googling turkey sausage recipes. I’m watching a video my dad sent in a Facebook message the night before. It’s a cat in a hamster wheel. I’m texting my boyfriend to tell him I’ll be over for dinner soon, probably around six. Maybe six-thirty. The weather is nice. It’s Thursday, August 30, 2018. My stepmom is calling. My dad’s been in an accident.


It’s funny, the brain. Mysterious, really. That’s what the neurosurgeon with the kind eyes tells me as we sit in the small, quiet, bad news room. The “We’re hoping for a miracle” room. The “But you should prepare to make some difficult decisions” room.

I sit in a chair next to my dad’s hospital bed, holding his bloodied, bandaged hand. Eyes closed, mouth open, snoring softly, bare feet pointing in either direction. I listen to his snores against the beeping of the vital signs monitor, watch his belly move up and down with the ventilator, breathe in the scent of whatever soap was used to clean his wounds.

I close my eyes, and he’s back in the orange recliner. My memory that is barely a memory at all plays on repeat in my mind, as if I’m winding back the cassette tape of my brain over and over again. Just a small moment. Just a glimpse.

He was right, the kind-eyed neurosurgeon. The brain is funny, mysterious in the ways it works to heal its broken parts.


Days later, I return to the orange recliner. My altar that smells faintly of cat piss and cigarettes. It cradles me as I grieve the loss of my father, absorbing every salty tear, each ounce of spilled bodega wine, all my whispered prayers. I close my eyes, winding back the cassette tape of my brain over and over again until I finally drift to sleep.

I dream I’m sitting in the orange recliner. My dad calls and asks if I’d like for him to bring by a chicken sandwich for lunch.

“Absolutely.”

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