Yesterday
I had
arms
that
moved
and
did
things.
In
the
morning
my
limbs
lifted
the
girl
child
above
my
head
and
twirled
her.
I
think
she
giggled,
but
it
wasn’t
clear.
Then
they
dressed
and
fed
her,
and
washed
her
messy
face.
She
scowled
at
the
cloth,
or
that’s
what
it
looked
like.
Later
the
arms
drove
me to
the
high
school,
where
they
held
a
flute,
and
showed
a
teenager
how
to
play
études
and
scales.
Those
arms
drove
me
back
again
to
the
house
in
the
suburbs.
On
the
stoep
I
opened
the
door
of
the
parrot
cage
and
scratched
the
bird’s
head.
Its
beak
bounced
as it
mouthed,
“Polly
put
the
kettle
on.”
It’s
a new
trick
that,
the
bird
mouthing
the
song
it
once
could
sing.
At 4
p.m.,
I
walked
through
the
veggie
patch
and
pulled
out a
blackjack
plant,
growing
in
the
spinach
bed.
It
buzzed
and
snapped
at
me—angry
at
its
decapitation,
then
whining,
the
weed
wilted
on
the
hot
stones.
Then
I
opened
the
latch
of
the
toyhouse
post
box,
bolted
with
a
rusty
nail.
I
wiped
my
palms,
sweat-dusty
on my
jeans.
The
postbox
exhaled
a
heavy
sigh.
I
sorted
the
mail
while
the
baby
slept,
and
opened
all
but
one
note.
I
never
held
paper
that
weighed
so
much
as
that
one
envelope,
heavy
as a
coffin.
I put
it,
unopened,
under
my
pillow,
and
ran
water
for
the
baby’s
bath.
I
tested
the
temperature,
like
I
always
do,
but
my
inner
wrist
registered
neither
hot
nor
cold.
The
baby
seemed
happy
though
and
she
fusses
if
the
water’s
too
hot.
So, I
suppose,
the
water
was
right.
But
it’s
been
bothering
me
that
I
might
accidentally
hurt
her.
I
don’t
want
to
burn
her.
I try
the
water
again
for a
signal.
But
it
will
not
speak;
it no
longer
sings
the
lullaby
it
did
when
I
bobbed
in
the
bath,
heavy
with
child.
I
started
making
supper,
but
dropped
the
Bunnykins
plate.
It
cracked
into
bite-sized
pieces.
I
took
the
carrot
from
the
broken
Peter
Rabbit
in my
left
hand
and
grated
it
against
the
peeler
in my
right.
I
watched
the
paper-thin
strips
of
the
vegetable
flake
and
fall,
but
felt
neither
metal
nor
moisture.
I
tried
ice
and
the
just-boiled
kettle
for a
point
of
reference.
But
neither
made
an
impression.
They
too
had
fallen
silent.
When
I
stroked
the
grater,
it
was
no
longer
vicious.
The
texture
was
smooth;
it
might
even
have
been
comforting.
I
think
that
was
the
last
thing
I
felt.
I saw
I had
finished
grating
the
carrot
when
red
spots
marked
the
counter
and
stained
the
little
orange
pile
of
gratings.
My
fingertips
looked
ragged—not
a
pretty
sight.
I
remembered
salt.
Someone
once
gave
me
salt
for
my
wounds.
But
the
salt
had
no
sting.
I
vaguely
recall
something
scriptural
in
that:
What
can
be
done
when
salt
loses
its
sting?
It
surprised
me to
see
that
my
hands
still
managed
pegs
and
shoelaces,
car
keys
and
padlocks.
I was
perplexed
that
they
still
functioned
and
served
me.
This
morning
I
woke
and
my
upper
limbs
were
gone.
A
black
woman
had
tied
the
baby
on to
her
back
and
the
child
slept.
I
went
to
the
toilet,
and
I’m
sure
I was
alone.
Yet
who
removed
my
undergarments
and
wiped
me
dry?
My
car
keys
are
gone
and
the
grater
too.
Today
I am
restless
and
confused.
Probably
I’m
mourning
or
perhaps
I
have
leprosy.
There’s
a
nurse
here,
or
two.
“This
is a
leper
colony?” I
asked.
She
unpacked
my
pyjamas
into
a
steel
cabinet
on
castors.
“You
see,
I
liked
having
arms,”
I
said
when
she
didn’t
answer
me.
“They
say
grief
does
strange
things
to
one.
I
never
knew
grief
could
eat
fingers
and
palms,” I
tried
to
explain
to
another
nurse
as
she
rolled
back
the
blankets
and
patted
the
mattress,
indicating
that
I
should
sit
down.
“I
may
be
grieving
for
the
dropped
Bunnykins
plate;
but
perhaps
I’m
sorrier
about
that
than
I am
about
my
departed
elbows
and
hands.”
Is it
the
loss
of
coldness,
or
the
absence
of
heat
that
makes
the
wet
pricks
come
unbidden
to my
eyes?
Shall
I see
Jesus
if I
shout, “I am
unclean!” I
look
again
at my
arms
and
they
are
wings.
Perhaps
I
have
died
and
am
now
with
the
saviour
in
heaven.
Should
I
yell “Hallelujah!”
The
nurse
says
no.
My
tears
flow
now;
but
am I
weeping
with
joy?
No.
When
I
taste
my
tears,
I
remember
a
little
again.
When
I
taste
my
tears,
I
remember
a
loss.
I am
sad
because
I
gave
my
wrists
away.
I
offered
them
to a
big
man,
who I
thought
was
nice.
I
asked
him
to
look
after
them,
but
he
took
them
away.
He
sent
me a
baby
in
exchange.
I
forget
his
name,
and I
lost
his
address.
Now
I’m
remembering
a
little
more
and
perhaps
I’ll
find
him
again.
He
wrote
me a
letter,
but I
don’t
know
where
I put
it.
Tomorrow
I
shall
ask
the
wings
to
write
for
me,
requesting
that
by
return
of
post,
the
big
man
send
my
wrists
back
to
me.
The
angels
will
carry
the
letter
to
him
and
return
them
feather-wrapped,
safe
and
sound.
Then
I
shall
lift
the
silver
flute,
plant
carrots
in
the
rough
red
earth
and
fold
the
washing,
crisp
on
the
line.
When
I
hear
again
the
song
from
the
tap,
I
shall
finger
the
water,
warm
and
soft.
I’ll
splash
bath-time
games
with
the
gurgling
infant
and
cover
her
in
kisses.
When
I
have
my
wrists
once
more,
I
shall
wash
and
nurse
my
baby
again.
Liesl
Jobson
works
in
Johannesburg
for
the
South
African
Police
Service.
She
also
teaches
music
and
writes
stories.
Her
work
has
appeared
in
Lit
Pot,
Exquisite
Corpse,
Gator
Springs
Gazette,
and
other
fine
e-zines.
This
piece
is a
fictionalised
account
of my
own
postpartum
depression.
It
attempts
to
explore
the
puzzling
loss
of
physical
sensation
that
occurred
despite
my
relatively
functional
behaviour,
the
progressive
bewilderment
and
dissociation
as my
cognitive
ability
deteriorated,
and
the
blessed
return
to
wellness.
