“There oughta be a law,” I said, “Businesses that go out of business ought to take their signs down.” My husband nodded, keeping his eye on the road as we headed north for a weekend trip.
“There oughta be a law,” I said.
Instead, there were signs announcing a craft shop or restaurant or motel that no longer existed.
It made me mad and it made me sad. We passed 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 said and finally heard myself.
I wasn’t just talking about signs but 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 was messy and painful—and I didn’t want to be reminded.
“I could use a cup of coffee and something to eat,” my husband said. “How about that place up ahead?” The sign was ugly but lit up with bright red neon—and I felt strangely cheered by this little oasis of hope.
“Looks like they’re still in business,” I said and we pulled into the parking lot.
“FOOD,” the sign said; it was all we needed.