In winter, my hands got dry. A result of frequent hand washing, a result of frequent bathroom breaks, a result of perpetually having a mug of tea in one hand and a reusable water bottle in the next, my hands were always dry.
I was drying them on a paper towel in the office I was temping in at the time when I felt the cracked and borderline bloody knuckles and sighed.
In winter, I was sure my hands would never be soft again.
Then it came to be spring. And I traded boots for sandals. I retired my winter pajamas and danced in the evening sun long after the time that would have brought winter darkness.
In spring, the skin on my hands began to smooth over. A result of warmer weather, a result of rejuvenating lotion, a result of getting more sleep, perhaps, my hands left their sharp edges in the colder months.
It’s funny to think how, when we’re in the midst of our life winters, we cannot imagine warmth. But always, always, always does the sun come up again. Even when we least expect it.