Dear Ann Arbor

Dear Ann Arbor,

You sly devil. You’ve done it again, dragging the sunshine back once again, drawing students from their responsibilities and onto patios where neon-colored drinks pair with burgers and fries. I’ll have another Oberon please!

It is spring (officially?) and it is April, which means that as I work on one of my final assignments as an undergraduate at the University of Michigan, I am seething at you and everyone outside, soaking you in.

Four years ago, almost to the date, you were so big. You were steaming with culture and quaint streets and niche shops. Swollen with pride and history — Angell Hall, the Michigan Union, the Big House. Back then, you we’re hard to leave because we knew you’d be there waiting for us under similar sunshine skies in August. And we were dazzled when, in cars loaded to the ceilings, we drove up State Street and past lazy hammocks and outdoor beer pong. We’re back.

You got small, sure, one year in when waves of strangers rippling through the diag began to dot with familiar faces from classes and the dining hall. 40,000 undergraduates seemed quaint when we piled into fraternity houses and ScoreKeeper’s and the library during finals. None of us could imagine going to a small school, because we knew and saw everyone.

It’s different now, but you’re big to me again. You haven’t aged a day, but I can’t help but feel painfully small here with you now. The talent and the brilliance and the perseverance that you’ve hosted during my short time pales in comparison to the totality of your existence, but damn. Think about how many tears will flow on April 30, when thousands of students will have to leave you for a short forever. Life will go on here, that is certain. But the impact you’ve had. That’s really something.