The Connection

There was an immediate connection. It was telepathic. We knew what each other was thinking. There have only been a few times in my life when I had this type of connection. The first time I felt it was the first time I saw John. It was a moment when time stands still and then things move in slow motion. I instantly knew I would marry him. I could almost hear Robert Flack singing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”. It was that moment that I fully appreciated the words to her song. I didn’t understand that force then and certainly can’t explain it now, thirty-nine years later. It was a connection, just something I knew.

When my first child was born prematurely, doctors told me he would probably be mentally impaired or worse yet would not live. I looked into his eyes and knew he would be alright. I never worried about him. I often wonder if he knew the same, but of course neither of us will ever know.

There are other less dramatic times when I have experienced a special connection: experiences with friends or family where we know what we are thinking; the moments when we say the same things in unplanned unison. Reactions to those special moments are a giggle, a stare, or even a diversion of the conversation to savor that special moment.

So, although there have been moments like this in my life, none has been as surprising to me as this one. I was reading and it was fairly late in the evening. I could hear the crickets and tree frogs outside my door and the music from the street party a half block away. It was just a typical village evening. I got up to get a glass of water when it happened. This may be difficult to believe, but I assure you I am not making this up.

My kitchen door was open and the screen was closed. The windows were opened and fresh island breeze was swirling around the room. I turned the light on. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement near the sink. I turned and saw him in full view. Fear set in. An intruder had entered my kitchen.

It was there that our eyes met. My first thought . . . “I need a weapon”. I grabbed the broom near the refrigerator. It has a blue handle and hand-painted Disney Tinker Bell characters on it. I proceeded to swing knocking glasses and silverware from the sink and onto the floor. I couldn’t be concerned about breakage at this moment. I would replace anything that may break. At this moment my life was far more important than a little glassware. This was an emergency.

He jumped from the counter and our eyes met again. This time it was different. I stopped swinging and he started telepathically pleading his case for me to stop. For an instant I felt sorry for him. Although he was an intruder and not welcome in my house there was a connection . . . he was really sorry he had made the mistake of entering my kitchen. We were both frightened. He knew it and I knew it. He had no weapon. He was defenseless. The power he had seconds ago was transmitted to me. I was in charge now.

My reaction to his plea is a source of regret. Even though this incident happened a week ago, I think about it every single day. It’s just now that I feel like I can talk about it. Somehow I will make amends in the future.

I did not allow him to persuade me to stop defending myself. No, after a few seconds of telepathic communication I continued my defensive swinging with the broom. I chased him throughout the kitchen. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to send him reeling over the back balcony to his death. I feel guilty for having this feeling. I do like to think of myself as a peaceful volunteer but my instincts were taking over.

The scuffle lasted for what seemed to be several minutes until he found his way out of my kitchen by making his body small and crunching himself under the screen door. I quickly slammed my door and locked it. The last time I saw that roach he stopped momentarily on the porch to look back at me. I swear he was telepathically saying, “it’s going to be ok for both of us now”.

I’ve been on this island for one year now. I think there is something to this disease called, “island fever”. Does anyone think I need a vacation?