I forget, somehow, every year, how dry it is. Winter in Nebraska brings cold wind and dry air and don’t bump up against me too hard because the skin on my legs may start showering down like snowflakes. Getting a bath ready, water dripped from my hand onto my bare leg, and the path of it was stark like when a kid smudges WASH ME on the car’s dingy back window.

It’s not a problem, per se. I just haven’t winterized my thinking, my routines. Some of the soaps could use a rest, some of the lotions—more liberal applications.

I don’t mind it all. The evenings are darker, sooner, and I take it as permission to tuck in. Humans don’t hibernate, but like hell if my metabolism doesn’t change. Less activity of some sorts, more of others. An overall redirection of resources. I turn inward over winter, as the cold wind blows outside.

It’s just winter. I’ll moisturize my way through.

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Writing prompt: What needs a tune-up?

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