having perhaps the better claim

like sludge? maybe, but i've never personally waded through sludge. molasses? not sure, exactly, though it might be too sweet, brown sugar and all.

maybe heavy, wet snow. cold. so cold. unyielding. deeper than your knees or thighs, even, so that it gets down into your big, tall, used-to-be-warm-and-fluffy boots and you have to lift your lead-heavy legs with each step like some fancy prancing horse. crusted on the ends of your sleeves, biting at your raw now-exposed wrists, mittens soaked through and no longer safely tucked in. toes aching, throbbing--not quite numb enough for relief: and then if they go numb, you'll be sure they've fallen off, lost forever. tears--of fear? for what if they have fallen off already?--warm for a moment, only freeze on your eyelashes, crusty and stiff and sharp. sharp burning-cold tears. nostrils: nose that used to be running when there remained warmth inside, now frozen from the inside out, making it impossible to warm the air, stinging and oh-don't-rub-it. impossibly cold air filtered through frozen, though no snow has been there. cheeks white-cold, burning cold, numb yet stinging. white-gray sky blends in with white-gray snow, leaving no horizon, no distinction between down here and up there.

if you're from where i'm from, you know that it's the only way home. after the joy--the sledding, the snowman-building, the snowball throwing, the angel-making, the just-a-few-more minutes one too many times--there's always the walk home. the impossible, unavoidable, how-much-longer-and-why-isn't-there-anyone-here-to-carry-me walk home.

yes, it's more like that than sludge or molasses, i think.

and if you've been where i am, you know some days are just so like that. it feels like a long walk Home.