I'm sure of it

Another moving day. The fourth time in two years. 

Dorm life, she has been warned, would be somewhat nomadic.

She had taken to heart administrative advice: pack light. Be ready, with less than a semester’s notice, to pack everything you own into a bin not much larger than a shopping cart and wheel it clear across campus if need be. 

During freshman year she had changed rooms three times, from a triple in Boston to a hotel room in Greece; and back to a campus high-rise for a few weeks that summer. Sophomore year she had stayed put: living her best life in a fifth-floor studio with two roommates, their own kitchen, and a balcony (big enough for a flower box) overlooking the campus.

She loved that place.

Not that she didn’t gush about the next move: to an upper-class dorm suite that would rival any upper-class neighborhood’s three-bedroom apartments. And looking at the photos she sent on moving day, I could see the place had a modern vibe, with walls of windows and an open-concept living space. The new apartment would surely be the best city dwelling she might ever live in for the comparatively “bargain” rate of college room and board.

But she didn’t seem in any rush to get her belongings packed up and moved over there. The day before her ID tag would cease working at one address and fling open another, she hadn’t packed up even one thing.

I imagined she would miss the old place. It’s tall ceilings, hardwood floors, and burnished woodwork. It was the place that sealed her as an adult. Not only because she had to clean a toilet of her own, but more because she learned how to cook on a gas stove and laughed long into the night at the dinners she and her roommates had hosted.

The salad days were evolving into souffle nights.

I could understand other reasons for her hesitation, as well.

She would be the first to arrive and would have to practice living single for almost a month before she’d have a whole new slate of housemates.

Still, I had offered to help get her things from one street to another. I volunteered to expend significant amounts of elbow grease on floors or windows or whatever dust had been overlooked by past occupants.

I knew the terrain. I could help lug things up and down stairs. I could disassemble and reassemble as if I were fluent in the language of IKEA Directions. 

I set the tone of my voice to "unnaturally exuberant" and delivered the message:  “Not only will I happily drive five hours in the rain and darkness just to see your new place, I will scrub the stalagmites out of your oven if necessary.”

But she had declined. 

She had all the help she needed from her college friends. 

Which is why I was surprised when my phone started lighting up with texts. 

“How do you work a dishwasher?”

“There are 235 people who live in this building and guess how many washing machines work? THREE! I’ve filed my first request for a work order …. WE!”

“WHY ARE THERE MOUSETRAPS HERE? EWWWW”

"And oh man … there’s a light post outside my bedroom window THAT. NEVER. GOES. OUT! I didn’t get to sleep until 2 a.m.”

“Guess what time I woke up this morning? 5 a.m. Guess why? That garage door under my apartment is where they store the garbage. And Thursday is garbage day.”

“At least I hope it’s just on Thursdays. I don’t know, but a girl can dream.”

As she took a breath, I laughed. It felt like I was with her in more than spirit.

“I think I’m going to love it there.”

I was sure of it.