Dear April

I write this letter to you as if you are already in the past, primarily because I’m currently living in the future. Heavy life decisions have been placed in my lap as graduation rapidly approaches and I haven’t had the time to taste the sweetness of the fruits you’ve brought my way. Yesterday a man I didn’t know and never saw paid for the meal I purchased my mother and nephew. I nearly cried when the cashier told me. I’m trying to appreciate this life while I can, every night I drive home well below the speed limit with the radio off and the windows unrolled, feeling the wind pelt my flesh trying to engrave the experience into my mind as the wind engraves the pathway specks of dirt have taken over my arms. I feel like I’m living in the most mundane dream I’ve ever had, but the mysticism of sleepy hallucinations dancing my head hasn’t evaded me. I don’t want to see you go, but I excitedly and somewhat horrifiedly anticipate the months to follow.