We’d only driven 200 miles since sunrise and had stopped often. Something about the Angler, though, the faded sign maybe, or the way evening mist dipped close to the motel, required documenting.

The night clerk, a young man lost in a game on his phone, agreed to be filmed. He began, pointing to a photograph taped under the glass countertop. The Polaroid’s edges were scalloped, a black and white image faded into smoky hue. Two women leaned on a shiny 1960’s sedan.

“My grandmother and her sister the day they bought the motel,” he said. “Make sure you mention them.”

–Sharon Rousseau is a writer and photographer living in New York City.

Visit Sharon’s Website Here