It’s perfect here, Mo says.
Maybe it’s the stars. Maybe the train rumbling past as it parallels Route 66 on a cross-country mission. Maybe it’s the huge neon peace sign that’s been over the hostel since I can remembered. (just because it hasn’t worked yet doesn’t mean it never will, right?) Maybe it’s the quiet vibe of a small liberal community that you’ve visited so many times it feels like home. And maybe someday will be. Maybe it’s sitting on the steps of the courthouse at the exact spot where you get married. Maybe it’s that smell of trees and altitude and hope. Or maybe it’s because Mo just threw back two IPAs and is climbing the wall to steal a poster from outside Macy’s.
Whatever. She’s right. Perfect. A glorious respite from a devastating month. Perfect.