My Seatmate

Instead of sitting next to a seven year old on my most recent flight to visit grandchildren, I sat next to an introspective 40-something career woman. The child who had been assigned the seat originally would have been separated from her mother and younger sister, had my seatmate not changed places with her. Initailly I was disappointed since I have a special kinship with children of that age. It wasn’t long, however, before it was apparent that this was a special spin of the wheel of fortune for me.

We never exchanged names or identifying features of our lives, but we shared extraordinary intimate details that shaped our beings. I could tell you what gives her the most pleasure every day and what her most recent heartache was. I could tell you about the love affiair that didn’t work out and the man she married despite the fact that they will never be intimate. .

She could tell you who has disappointed me, whom I have caused disappointment, the psychological makeup of my family of origin, the insights I have about others and not about myself. She could tell you why I was confused on that day and what she advised me.

We could both comment on strking resemblances we have to each other, ways in which our lives overlap, ways in which we have reacted to the slaps and dashes of day-in and day-out. We could point out that despite a random connection, we each gained something invaluable from the other that we would carry with us henceforth

After a few hours I thought we would retreat behind headphones, The New Yorker, or a crossword puzzle. I knit as I always do. But we kept it up, the conversation that got deeper and deeper. Before we knew it we were close to tears and our point of arrival. And the talk didn’t stop once. Six hours culminated in wishing each other well for the next thirty, forty years, never learning names and knowing we would never see each other again.