in a foreign named town in northern oregon i exit the freeway and drive through a thick fog to meet a friend. our truck is left on the street in front of trevor’s mother’s house, its bed piled high with possessions; yours, mine, ours. it’s not quite night, but evening, and everything is grey, glowing dimly in the cloud, pulsing with soft light.

we drive through the town in trevor’s car. he points out the bars he drinks at, the school he teaches at, the buildings he looks at. this town is small and in disrepair. it feels like it needs only be forgotten by one more person and then it’ll simply disappear, melt back into the surrounding fog, so close to taking it now.

in a booth next to a large window, we drink coffee at the diner his aunt works at. it’s cheap and warm and watery, just like diner coffee is supposed to be and when the aunt comes around to refill the small, thick mugs, she asks if we want some pie and i know exactly the kind of place i am in.

we came here often when i was younger, as a family with two small children, one of who didn’t seem capable of going four minutes without sticking something up her nose. before laws were passed to make it illegal to smoke inside, close to, or even around places people ate and drank they would ask if you if you wanted smoking or non-smoking. half of the restaurant filled with grey clouds, the other half only stinking of them. 

my parents say non-smoking, but we still get smoking, just the lite version, the filtered down, expansive quality of it. we sink into vinyl booths of dark brown and dark green, cracked and deep, threatening to swallow all of us entirely. at this place breakfast is served twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, the plates heaping with sausage, eggs, pancakes, potatoes and toast, all of it in excess to hide the flatness of its nature.

mint flavored toothpicks are in a plastic shaker and milkshakes come in a glass with a cherry and the extra, a whole half glassful of the stuff in the metal mixing cup delivered alongside. a paper kid’s menu in tandem with the real menu that features nothing more than chicken strips, french fries, and a maze to work your way out of with the accompanying broken crayons.

glass ketchup bottles, seemingly impervious to gravity’s charms, sit on every table. my sister plays a joke on me after an early morning soccer game. i sit with my family, wet hair and a grass stained uniform, feet not quite yet touching the floor, and reach for the bottle when my meal comes. she’s unscrewed the cap and set it back on top, lightly balanced, ready to fly away, as it does, along with  spattering ribbons of ketchup that arc and hang draping in the air before slashing across the table and booth and clothes of us all when i shake it in preparation.

she smiles.

i remember now, her smile, it’s so big.