In April I changed clothes in the bathroom of the Taco Cabana down the street before turning off a road called Stadium into a visitor’s parking spot.
We were early, so Dad slept in his seat (after driving all night) and I listened to the patter of droplets on the windshield, wondering how I was supposed to take a tour when it was raining.
Seven semesters taught me how to advertise with chalk on the sidewalk and to watch out for skittering roaches when the weather got warm again.
I lived in four different rooms with thirteen different people and learned to let go of the story that I got to control my room’s temperature and when to challenge their foul moods when they walked in.
I learned to give up a plan for a purpose, to spend more time on people that matter than classes that don’t, that “A” is a letter that I don’t need in my life to be successful.
In another April, I wait next to a road called Stadium for my fiancé to pull into a visitor’s parking spot. “Hey,” I want to tell my self from that other April. “One day you’ll declare a creative writing minor in that building. You’ll learn to play piano in that one there, and you’ll complain that there’s nothing to eat in that one.”
“Hey, that tour guide was right; the rain doesn’t come often down here. Cherish it.”
Melanie Cook is graduating with a degree in psychology.