a Metaphor for our lifves [sic] as they stand

It felt like we had been driving forever through a forest of trees of which we couldn’t see the tops. It was becoming dark when, suddenly on our right, we saw lights. Yes, they were feeble, but I clutched your arm in excitement. They were the first glow we’d seen in miles and miles.

The road writhed a little and you read, spelled out on an arrow, surrounded by old fashioned chaser lights, “You Are Here.”

“That’s not what it says,” I objected. “The sign says Are You Here.”

The windshield was sparkling clear because of the rain. We pulled into the parking lot. The glass bulbs which made up the sign looked delicate.

There was an old Shell pump of indistinguishable color beside a narrow building made of wood. It had a sharply pitched roofline, shutters, dormers. The front steps were steep.

“I would like my stories to be made of real places, real events—these are the things from which I’d like to make narratives, find meaning,” I said.

“Lets go inside,” you said, getting out of the car.

Another, smaller, wooden sign said, The Inn Between.