The snow's coming down in drips and sideways, wet, sloppy kisses from the sky.
Perhaps it's nature's attempt to swoon us before Valentine's Day.
Not that dry, powdery stuff the kind skiers pine over, but down-and-dirty slush – the kind that soaks through your socks.
Slush. It's the bastard child of winter, the unloved stepchild, but it’s got a certain… character.
One minute you’re striding along, feeling like some kind of arctic explorer, the next you’re hydroplaning across the sidewalk, ass over teakettle, landing in a snowbank that smells vaguely of wet dog.
Slush creates a world where some of the usual rules are suspended, and the only certainty is that you're going to get your feet wet.
Hopefully, the driver in the car passing by you will slow down and not spray you. Otherwise, feel free to give them hell.
So embrace the slush. Let it soak through your goddamn socks. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, it’s inconvenient, and it’s absolutely, undeniably, alive.
In a world seemingly going to hell, a little bit of glorious, grimy slush is exactly what the doctor ordered.
A Citizen’s Forum essay in Reno on Feb. 13th 2025
