My knuckles are dry beyond repair.

It’s all of the hand washing. No amount of lotion helps. After this has run it’s course, I’ll shed this brittle skin. Gently fold it. Place it in a wooden box. Something with a latch. Alongside toilet paper tubes. Hand dated in ballpoint pen. Half a dozen empty crosswalks. A cassette recording of a BBC reporter contemptuously explaining American health insurance deductibles. “They reset every year.” A recipe for Soy Curl Chiken Soup. And blades of grass for everyone that didn’t make it.

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