“There oughta be a law,” I say, “businesses that go out of business ought to take their signs down.” My husband nods, keeping his eye on the road as we head north for a weekend trip.
“There oughta be a law,” I say.
Instead, there are signs announcing a craft shop or restaurant or motel that no longer exists.
It makes me mad and it makes me sad. We pass a farm market that’s been closed for years while its big sign keeps inviting travelers to stop in. “Tomatoes, sweet corn, homemade pies!”
“When things are gone, they ought to be gone,” I say and finally hear myself.
I’m talking about signs but also about everything that ends, that doesn’t work out. Not only businesses but friendships, marriages, jobs, and plans that fall apart but leave their signs around. Failure is messy and painful—and I don’t want to be reminded.
“I could use a cup of coffee and something to eat,” my husband says. “How about that place up ahead?” The sign is ugly but lit up with bright red neon and I feel strangely cheered.
“FOOD,” the sign says and we pull into the parking lot.
