I stood in front of the toaster oven to retrieve my slightly singed toast, and for a moment, I felt the warmth of the sun.

It's been so long since I've seen the sun. I suppose I've grown accustomed to the cruel skies of a bitter climate. Lately, all that can be seen of the world when I look out my bedroom window is the grey sky and the bare bones of a Japanese maple.

The waterlogged earth squelches underfoot, weeping the melted snow up through a sparse carpet of grass. The grass, also, is barely keeping it together.

The skin on my hands has grown dry and rough, and while I could blame this on my clumsiness or demanding pastimes, I know better. Occasionally I work up the motivation to fight this process with some lotion or other. But yet, the heat of my apartment and the chill winds persist.

Will my hands ever again have that soft tenderness? Will we ever again see the sun? Will we ever?