By Tali Perch
My glider’s mint-colored cushions absorbed not only the impact from rocking for entire days at a time while Gabriel ate and slept at my breast. They were also drenched with the tears of pain from each time he latched on.
The glider sat catty-corner to the wall. Matthew had placed it there the day before he returned to work—motivated by both love and guilt—hoping the view from the window would help allay my loneliness. The window overlooked the vintage cottages of Florence Park, our Tulsa neighborhood. A wooden diaper table stood to my right above baskets overflowing with cloth diapers, burp rags, and baby sheets. At my knees sat a short end table, a tall, foggy glass of ice water sweating onto its shiny finish. Holding Gabriel with both hands, I couldn’t do much about the ring I knew the glass would leave, or the handful of Clif Bar wrappers being blown around by the ceiling fan.
About the Author
Tali Perch is pursuing an MFA in creative nonfiction from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is a memoirist and an essayist who enjoys writing about parenting, feminism, cultural anthropology, and her childhood as a Soviet-Jewish refugee. Her work has been published in Sweet: A Literary Confection.
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