My mother told me that when she was a little girl, there were times she couldn’t sleep at night. “I would lie in bed and imagine that somewhere in the world a single gas station was open,” she said. “Then I didn’t feel so lonely and could go back to sleep.”
Her story comforted me, too, when I was awake in the quiet darkness. I could picture that same gas station—the pump out front and a light on inside, with one guy at a desk reading a magazine. Somehow, the world wasn’t so scary and I wasn’t so alone.
Of course, even when my mother was a child, there must have been a hospital open at night or a police station. And after all, it was daytime on the other side of the planet. But those things don’t necessarily occur to a small child. They didn’t occur to me.
Just recently, I remembered my mother’s imaginary gas station when I couldn’t sleep—and thought that today, there are countless businesses open twenty-four hours. And I wondered, why am I not comforted?
Because everything feels too wide-awake now, too round-the-clock, nonstop. Hectic, demanding, exhausting. I can’t find the OFF button—for the world, or for my mind. So, I picture that single gas station, with a light on inside.
