Liesl Jobson | Learning to feel again

I test my new fingertip, touching with curiosity: Is it gel-ish? Or squish? Gravel or heat? My pointer is lighter in color now and the swelling is down. Less mottled purple, more reddish pink.

The bulbs transplanted from my late mother’s garden have thrown up thin stripes of leaf. In a month or two, blue daisy-esque flowers will sing of her eyes.

Today the brushed cotton bed linen feels less cobbled. I make the bed using both hands to bulk up the pillows. I pull the covers straight, sinking each finger deliberately into the puffy duvet.

In the kitchen I tear pitted dates into tiny strips, my pointer pinched to my thumb like the hand therapist showed me. I add the dates to the oats, holding the wooden spoon without flinching. I add salt, feeling the grit then pour the coffee when the porridge is nearly done. Function is all, said the hand therapist. Make it work.

Steam condenses on the winter window and sunbirds beyond it sip nectar from the bold orange aloe. On the receding shallows beyond the jetty, cane has floated in after the rain. I pass my rosary from one hand to the other, sensing wide space between each bead, deep time between each decade. The alarm is a delicate tinkle, signaling the end of contemplation.

And on this morning, this God-given morning, the great gull swoops over the mudflats alighting on the water. I slip my rings on again and flex my tendons admiring the diamond. I curl my fist. Stretch and curl. Stretch and curl. My bones click symmetrically beneath the scar. It’s not so bad, they whisper, not so bad.