You Used to Say

Down the road a little ways, just before the Dead End sign, I startle a small herd of black angus. They’re tight to the fence line on my approach, but quickly scurry deeper into the pasture, heads high in vigilance. I watch them as I trot past, enjoying the contrast of their inky blackness against the snow-covered trees on the hillside rising behind. Above that, a sullen sky, draining of the late afternoon light. I can smell the cows, all that warmth and sweetness in the cold air.

As I pass the cows, I’m listening to Jason Molina’s  North Star, which in my humble opinion contains some of the best song lyrics ever written (they’re made particularly poignant by the fact of Molina’s life-long battle with depression and alcoholism, which eventually claimed his life). See if you don’t agree:

You used to say I had what it takes

I think I did if you meant too little too late

I can tell by the looks that I’m gettin’

I made some big mistakes

And I thought you said I was great

Shoot straight and give it my best try

I made my heart as hard as nails

That may be the way you live your life

But it’s almost got me killed

Darling I’m not giving in

That happened miles ago

I heard the north star saying

Kid you’re so lost even I can’t bring you home

Did you think that we were going to last

Honey you know you don’t have to answer that

Half of that was my kind of joke

I don’t remember which half

I didn’t know how blue I’d get

I didn’t know how I’d get blamed for it

I didn’t choose to go down this road

No one chooses to be sick

I’m saying everything is fine

By the look in my eye

But you know darling

Half of what a man says is a lie

It’s your last chance to forget me now

Then it’s done for good

You always said I’d make it out

Somehow darling I knew I never would

I run a short ways past the angus, then turn. They watch me pass again, heads swiveling to mark my progress. Still wary. The snow falls lazily enough that I entertain myself by identifying individual flakes from a half-dozen paces, then seeing if I can catch them in my mouth. Flake after flake after flake, I miss. They either fall to fast, or too slow, or drift in unpredicted directions, and I can’t seem to correct my course quickly enough to make the catch, though not for lack of spastic lurches.

But then I think of those cows, serious and watchful in their field, and there’s something in that image of them – the stark contrast of colors, I think it is, maybe the alertness, too – that sobers me. So I leave the snowflakes alone and run for home.