Funny how the mind makes—or doesn’t make—its connections.
Sporadically for about twenty years now, my wife Flo has run into a woman while
we are out shopping, whom she’s sure she knows, who is sure she knows Flo.
They both feel this connection. They worked together, as
adults—no shared school or childhood memories. Ate lunch together, chatted, seemingly
over a period of years.
At different meetings, each would rattle off times, places,
scenarios, at which the other would draw an utter blank.
Then, we wouldn’t see Rita for, say, two or three years. For some reason, they
never exchanged last names.
A couple of weeks ago, while out shopping, Flo noticed Rita
again. While I was off looking for something to fix something with at home,
they chatted, with the same results.
A few days ago, shopping again, we stopped at the in-store
deli to talk and go over our lists. After a while, Flo noticed Rita again. She
was sitting at a table several over from ours, facing away from us.
Flo tried to describe in a little more detail the connection
they feel. It is as if they were
dragged from a deep sleep and transported to some underground facility to work
a shift. Their friendly conversations would take place during meal breaks. This
sense of connection, of shared memories, still persists.
Now for an example of how connections work in my brain:
First, the “crazed deejay” spins up The Beatle’s “Lovely Rita, Meter Maid”
softly in the background. The word “meter” pings with the description of the
factory experience Flo relates.
The result:
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