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.


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