When I found out school was closed, the first thing I did was celebrate. Then I remembered all the things I’d miss: senior activities, prom, graduation and senior skip day (I was really looking forward to that one).
A week or so after the announcement, I went for a drive because I couldn’t stand being in my house 24/7 anymore. And where did I end up? My parking spot. It was just such a normal thing to do, something I never thought about while school was in session.
While I sat in my car, parked in my spot, I reminisced on the hassle this was every morning. I wasn’t perpetually tardy, but it happened often enough that nobody was surprised. Then I thought about why the parking spot mattered.
Other than what we carried, there wasn’t much that belonged to just us on campus. There were no lockers unless you played a sport or danced. Even then, they were out of your way most likely. But drivers had a parking spot. Of course, these were parked in numerous times by other people, but they were ours. And I miss mine.
Of course it didn’t have much personality. There was no painting it, and I never thought to name it. I can’t even remember the number off the top of my head, just where it was. If I were to name it now, I think I’d call her “Spotty.” It’s such a terrible pun that I think she’d like it. Of course, eventually, I’d shorten the name to “Spot” because why say two syllables when you can just utter one?
I never got to tell Spot a proper goodbye. That day in the empty parking lot doesn’t count to me. Eventually Spot will be passed on, probably to a future senior (she was a lovely spot, toward the front and center). She’s pretty much my senior goodbye.
Don’t get me wrong, I did a lot of stuff in high school, some would say too much. I reigned in enough accomplishments to round out my college résumé. But Spot represented the mundane. Every single day I parked over her. I imagine sometimes she hated me. I’m not a bad driver per se, but I’m not the best. ‘Twas a rare morn’ when I need not have re-parked.
Even with her imagined complaints, I imagine she still liked me. Spot’s like what school was. Did I enjoy school? Not really. I liked some of the stuff I did, some activities, my teachers, and friends. But school? The institution? Ehh. But the mundane stuff is what will make it memorable. Of course I’ll remember the big stuff like homecoming and 2020 — the year in which we had a WWIII scare, Australia burned, and the apocalypse came in the form of a disease.
But the mundane? Spot? Those are the things that will be bundled up together and glossed over with golden nostalgia. Spot was mine. She was high school. Now it’s time to let them both go and let the circle of Spot continue.
