LITMIR.BIZ

      “Who is the greatest perfectionist in our family?” I once asked my mother. “Dad!” she answered without hesitating.

      My father’s extreme perfectionism was evident even after his death, when my mother had to look through his filing cabinet in search of funeral and other policies. She could hardly see through her tears. But when she pulled out the drawer, everything she needed was there, almost as if my father had known that something terrible was going to happen at the Augrabies Falls and that my grief-stricken mother wouldn’t be thinking clearly.

      I find comfort in the ordinary routine of my life and I flourish when everything is properly structured.

      My mother’s sense of order is clear from all the albums and files that she meticulously keeps up to date. Also at her office at the university. She likes clean curtains and framed photographs. She cannot stand it when the curtains are covered with dust after a wind storm in the dry winter months.

      In her office (and in her life), every single thing has its place, even my pillow and blanket for when I am unwell. While she is lecturing or marking student papers, I lie on the carpet behind or in front of her desk.

      In photographs of my grandmother, Sarie, I notice that her hair always looked smart. When she was getting on in years, her grey hair was neatly waved, like that of the women in paintings by the old masters in museums overseas. My sisters and I liked to take photographs of her, posing with us for yet another one.

      Photographs portray moments in time, my mother says. The ones with Granny Sarie tell of many beautiful moments. I remember my granny’s softness, her clean smell.

      I always made sure that I sat close to her. But after photo sessions like these, she often had to use oxygen. She suffered from emphysema for 30 years, and during the ten years before her death she had to use oxygen constantly.

      She carried her illness with grace. She never uttered a negative word about it. Even during this time, my granny would always ask: “Does my hair look tidy?” And: “Oh no, just look at all these brown spots on my hands!”

      I think I had the same idea about both my father and Granny Sarie: that other people die and are buried, but not my dad or Granny Sarie. The two of them, I thought, would never die.

      Many people like routine and structure. It helps to make new places and new things seem less daunting. They like it when promises are kept. An orderly structure makes them feel safe. But I want even more than this kind of order.

      In our house my dad was the middle finger, because he was tall and (sometimes) slim and as handsome as can be. In his forties, he became even better looking after he got rid of his moustache and bought a very classy pair of glasses. So, in our family of five, Dad was the middle finger, Mom the index finger, Zettie the little finger, Marisa the slightly longer one – between the little finger and the middle finger – and I am the thumb, who can’t stand soil under my nails.

      I like my nails to look neat.

      I wipe crumbs from the school children’s mouths. I also wipe their noses, if they cannot do it themselves, but luckily most of them can.

      Actually, I’m quite a bit like my mother. She’s taught me to pick up anything that is lying around and to put it where it belongs. These days I teach the school kids the same thing. But sometimes I pretend not to see that my room is not clean and orderly!

      Some of the school children call me Shéri, but some of them address me the same way they do Mr Hugo, the school principal, or the other teachers. Many of them cannot talk; they make sounds or touch my arm and look right into my heart, past my eyes.

      I have known Mr Dawie Hugo, our principal at Lettie Fouché School in Bloemfontein, for years and years. He was the one who gave permission for my parents to enrol me at Martie du Plessis School. Until then I had attended Lettie Fouché, the school for mentally challenged children, where I now work.

      When Mr Hugo was appointed principal of this school, things really changed for the better. When I was still in the baby class, the teachers repeated

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