The problem with being so tired is that the doctor thinks it might have something to do with the sleep cycle. Or lack thereof. That was one of the possibilities she offered. And ordered up a sleep study.
Great, but in the meantime, even with having the bed all to myself, sleep is very elusive. Last night (or this morning, depending on how you want to look at it) was one of those times. After two hours of staring at the darkness, a change of venue was in order. If I'm awake, let's see who else is. And is online at the same time.
Facebook Former was online, nursing his own off-kilter sleep cycle brought on by too many late nights at work. In talking online, he mentioned some events in my hometown's history that hadn't been taught me. With deeper discussion, the events involved people that were a part of my childhood days. Even talk of my father's funeral brought up a discussion of a synagogue bombing, my former church which stood watch at the synagogue, church bells, attorneys who find the fake bells cheesy, wives of attorneys who also happen to be my cousins as well as my former pediatric dental hygienists, and orthodontists. All from my hometown.
As he located the characters of his story on the actual streets, my mind's eye pictured the exact building and the 360° view from there, including the mountain just off past the second set of railroad tracks, the oversized flag at the Ford dealership and the ornate house used as the Women's Club. That longing returned. The longing for a simpler, slower life, looking out my window at the mountains, having people know me because of my genealogy.
Perhaps my love-hate relationship of my adopted hometown teetering more on the hate side is bringing on that sense of nostalgia. Perhaps it's the realization of all the things that I wish my father had told me. Perhaps it's the fact that my adopted hometown feels meteorologically more like the Pacific Northwest. Whatever the cause, perhaps some good long days of sunshine will take care of what ills you. However, those damn birds outside my window refuse to roost for the night, chirping all night long to that artificial sun affectionately known as a streetlight.