year after year what we do is undone

we took pictures with a disposable camera i still haven't developed. after corn kernels in indiana and eating midwest steaks and clinking glasses of not-milk, my mom and i parted ways in omaha after seeing my grandfather and my grandmother one last time before she died from smoking too many cigarettes in the kitchen.
when i pulled into the small wyoming town, it was cold and windy and i wore a black hat and one glove because my '91 honda accord had eaten the other one. there was a christmas tree lighting ceremony that night and my new roommate and photographer at the paper i was about to begin working for ate cookies with me and her dog sadie jumped all over me. we went to faler's and as i walked past the rows of animal heads staring with proud eyes, i bought coffee even though i never drank coffee. it was beer and coffee that night and what do you want in life? and i said this. i think this. snow and wind and the largeness-lostness of it all. van morrison in the kitchen and who do you think you'll be in your next life? me, maybe someone by a campfire, always.