In April I changed clothes in the bathroom of the Taco Cabana down the street before turning off a road called Stadium into a visitorâ€™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 roomâ€™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 donâ€™t, that â€œAâ€ is a letter that I donâ€™t need in my life to be successful.
In another April, I wait next to a road called Stadium for my fiancÃ© to pull into a visitorâ€™s parking spot. â€œHey,â€ I want to tell my self from that other April. â€œOne day youâ€™ll declare a creative writing minor in that building. Youâ€™ll learn to play piano in that one there, and youâ€™ll complain that thereâ€™s nothing to eat in that one.â€
â€œHey, that tour guide was right; Â the rain doesnâ€™t come often down here. Cherish it.â€
Melanie Cook is graduating with a degree in psychology.