Serendipity… an unplanned, fortunate discovery.

I write this from my daughter’s basement in Chicago. I call it the Waldorf Astoria so don’t be letting the word “basement” fool you.

September marks my granddaughter’s 5th birthday as well as my daughter’s 37th. The last time I visited was exactly one year ago when Emily broke her foot. I haven’t spent a birthday with her in many years, much to both our chagrins, but especially mine. Mornings and afternoons and evenings and weeks and months and years are getting shorter for me, and moments and opportunities are not

to be missed.

I got to the airport two hours ahead of time thanks to Dr’s insistence that I leave at 9:15. I checked in to my gate at 11 a.m. and didn’t board until 1:05 p.m. I had one of Oprah’s lightbulb moments when I realized I’m no longer timid about questioning airport people when I asked, “Is a gate the same as a concourse?” She said it’s the same and added, “It’s confusing, huh?” I felt better about myself after that.

I wondered what to do to pass the time. I’m not the kinda gal who dozes and props her feet up on her luggage. I’m way too self-conscious and nosey — especially the nosey part. I ended up going to Subway since I was still trying to fit comfortably in my jeans and ordered a grilled chicken something. I could barely read the menu, which reminds me, I just went to the eye doctor and he said, “Well good thing you came in.” I said, “Why, what’s wrong?” He said, “You’re blind.” But that’s another story. I ate the chicken something and pretended to be interested in the magazine I picked up because those college scandal people were on the cover.

When I got back to my gate I sat somewhere else due to the fellas I sat by earlier who had apparently been to the Saints game the day before. As I turned the corner I noticed, in the blink of an eye, a slightly familiar face to my left. It was a face from the past. It was a split second. The 1970s face stood up as I turned away, then my head turned around as though I’d been slapped, and there he was, my on-and-off again crush and boyfriend from high-school and college, but most importantly over all these years, my friend. We embraced as though we thought each other had died at one point but then realized we hadn’t died. I’m quite sure those around us looked up from their magazines and newspapers, not their iPhones though, and thought we were long-lost siblings filming a documentary on long-lost siblings. We talked and talked and talked.

When one flies Southwest one chooses one’s own seat and that gives me an overload of anxiety. I tossed and turned over that for two weeks. I mean, it’s like a Catholic’s version of Judgment Day but at an airport. Everyone is summing everyone up. It’s all so nose-up-in-the-air…ish. “What letter are you? I’m A,” he said. I said, “I’m B.”

We waved goodbye knowing it’ll most likely be years till we pass this way again. I spotted him and his work-friend as I walked down the aisle and pretended not to judge anyone and desperately looked for a compatible seat partner when he stood in the aisle, gallantly took my bag, tossed it up into the overhead compartment and pointed to the middle seat. The work-friend slept because we bored him to death, I’m assuming, as we talked amongst the clouds between New Orleans and Chicago and never stopped till we landed and were jolted back to reality. We brought back some of the good ole days, but mostly talked about who we are, and what we are, and why we are who we are now. We knew each other well as teenagers and college coeds, but I’m pleased to know a bit of him as an adult now. We were so very young. I’m happy he’s happy. I wish all of you who’ve had those special relationships in your formative years would have an opportunity as we had. He was frozen in time.

I was frozen in time.

We are no longer frozen in time…serendipity.

PHYLLIS BELANGER MATA was born at the old Dauterive Hospital and grew up on Wayne Street. She is a 1974 graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy and is a chili dog “without the wiener” aficionado.