By Jess Charle
I was a clumsy child. My parents like to recount tales of my follies to their friends at the country club.
There was that time Nanny Feldstein was pushing me down the slide and I slid right over the side, dislocating my arm. Nanny Feldstein snuck me a cupcake before dinner.
And the time I was waving goodbye to my parents from my bedroom as they left for Monaco. The heavy window slipped within its grooves and fell on my hand, breaking the middle and ring finger. Nanny Feldstein bought me Slothy, my beloved toy sloth.
And, my mother’s favorite, the time I knocked over a tea kettle spilling boiling water on my arm. The burn was so deep I needed skin grafts. Nanny Feldstein made me pancakes for dinner my first night home from the hospital.
I remember Nanny Feldstein’s face every time I tripped or fell, that smile she’d always give me. A smile I now realize wasn’t one of comfort, but of morbid glee.