I took off my gloves the other day and laid them on the kitchen cabinet. I had been outside watching the sun rise, as is my habit, even though the temperature was in the teens. I have had these gloves a long time, several years.
When I went back to put them on again, I saw them lying there, limp and useless. They still held the form of my hands, the fingers slightly curved. The thumb in place to grasp something, but they were empty, wrinkled and worn with use.