My hands got their annual-inaugural dirt digging. It happened while aimlessly and, albeit, blissfully walking from plant to plant, plot to plot. At first the stroll was an observational one, surveying casually the end-of-April happenings. I checked on the fruit trees, counted my elderberries and blueberries and inspected the flower beds.

In a moment of strawberry-growth-awe, I knelt to get a closer look, and before I could fully register what I was doing, the muscle memory of the season returned, and my hands tended the soil and pulled weeds around each plant. The first day of hands in earth feels like the strongest of palpable connections; the sensation is a familiar comfort while holding a strange newness after a long winter pause.

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