Erica

Brooksie, you can rest easy. Your daughter’s a lovely girl. I met her (quite by chance, as you shall see) when I was wandering without destination sixty miles from home yesterday. She noticed I was wearing a Dartmouth Class of 1998 Parents’ Weekend T-shirt. “Did you go to Dartmouth?” she asked. “Yes, but not in 1998. That was my daughter." “My father went to Dartmouth,” she said. “What class?” (Just making conversation, you see.) “I don’t know. Back in the Sixties sometime.” “What’s his name?” “Brooks. William Brooks.” “Bill Brooks?! Played soccer at Lower Merion?” “Yes.” “And at Dartmouth?” “Yes.” “Social chairman at Alpha Theta?” “I don’t know about that.” “English major?” “Don’t know.” "Trial lawyer? Practiced in Norristown?" "Yes." “Died in Alaska? Misdiagnosed appendicitis?” “Yes.” “That last was a real tragedy. He was a classmate and fraternity brother of mine. We lived under the same roof for several years. What’s your name?” “Erica.” Later in the day, I pondered the confluence of coincidences which had produced this little tableau. I had chanced to stop into a Bertucci’s restaurant for lunch while driving around Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania visiting boyhood haunts. Erica had chanced to be the waitress at my table. I had chanced to be wearing a Dartmouth T-shirt. She had chanced to be a friendly sort. I racked my brain last night trying to come up with the word that describes this sort of thing. It came to me this morning: Synchronicity.