Lessons Learned Read Free Page B

even if they don’t know your name.
    It was such a stark contrast to the city.
    Attending college in Memphis had been like moving to another planet. I’d shared a dorm with Monica, a beautiful African American girl who had clawed her way out of the ghetto with dreams of becoming a college professor. Despite the fact we had nothing in common except for a few education classes, we had become best friends.
    I had embraced my life in Memphis, dating a little and making new friends. Listening to jazz on Beale Street became my favorite weekend activity. That’s where I’d met Ryan, a music major from Little Rock who loved to play the saxophone. We dated until my demons—both past and present—became too much for him to handle.
    Once I arrived back at the house, I quickly unloaded the paint supplies before heading to the living room to begin the miserable process of unpacking. The thick burgundy curtains made the room a little dim, so I reached for a lamp.
    A thousand memories flooded me as the room was illuminated in a soft yellow haze.
    Running my hands along the faded white walls, I paused briefly when my fingers came into contact with the old framed photographs. My grandmother had loved taking pictures, and I’d always been her favorite subject.
    I’d been such a happy child; the girl in the frame was proof. Dangling upside down from a tree with my brown pigtails and cute dimples, it was hard to fathom that this brave kid used to be me.
    Once upon a time, I had been fearless.
    I suppose youth has a strange way of making you foolishly courageous.
    At the end of the row of photographs was my favorite picture of my parents. Mom was in her simple white dress and dad was wearing his best Sunday suit as they smiled into each other’s eyes on their wedding day. I’d spent my childhood gazing at the picture, desperate to grow up and find a love just like theirs—full of mutual respect and complete adoration for one another.
    I still believed their marriage was a fairy tale.
    With a heavy heart and tears prickling my eyes, I trailed my finger along the glass frame, wiping away the dust.
    I missed them.
    The rest of the day was spent cleaning and unpacking. I had two weeks until school started, which was good, because it would take me that long to get the house organized. As I carried a box upstairs, I noticed the wooden banister was a little loose. I mentally added it to my repair list before opening the door to my old bedroom.
    A new wave of memories washed over me, leaving me breathless.
    My room was just as I’d left it.
    The walls were faded green and an embarrassing display of everything I’d loved when I was a teenager. Sycamore High School pennants hung above the bed and a few basketball trophies lined the top of the bookshelf. A Kenny Chesney concert photograph was displayed on one wall while a Coldplay poster hung proudly on the other.
    Clearly, I’d been a musically confused teenager, as one had absolutely nothing to do with the other.
    While exploring the room, I spotted my dad’s old record player. Growing up, I’d collected vinyl records like most girls collected Barbie dolls, and I’d begged Mr. Johnson to keep a supply of record needles on hand, just for me.
    I glanced toward my closet and smiled.
    Standing on tiptoe, I opened the door and pulled my record collection from the top shelf. Collapsing on the floor, I sighed longingly as I flipped through the album covers. I’d stolen many of the records from my dad’s old collection, and seeing Creedence Clearwater Revival mixed in with Michael Jackson’s Thriller proved my musical confusion spanned the decades.
    Or maybe I just liked good music, regardless of the labels.
    I needed a place to sleep, so I placed MJ on the turntable and spent the rest of the evening cleaning my old room. I stripped the bed, added fresh linens, and dusted every flat surface. When the old grandfather clock echoed from downstairs, I felt a distinct tiredness wash over me. It was