30 years is but a wrinkle in time

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

This summer I got to spend time with someone very special: my university roommate.

The one who always texts me (as I do her) whenever we hear the song we played obsessively in our first-year dorm room at McMaster University’s Brandon Hall – all girls, 500 of them, although it was always compelling who middle-of-the-night fire drills turned up. She is one of the happiest accidents of my life: a totally random, last-minute pairing that has stood the test of time.

She texted me in April to remind me that we graduated 30 years ago, writing: “We put on our big girl pants and started our adult journey.” My heart stopped a little: it truly felt I was there one minute, I blinked, and now I’m here.

We lived together all four years. I remember saying goodbye on the porch of some student house in Hamilton after graduation in April 1993, with a deep knowing that I’d see her again, but that it would never, ever be the same.