There are three times in my life when minutes have become eternities, but I’ll only tell you about one.
The first longest minute I’ve ever known was even less than that. It was in the breath the nurse took as she met my eyes and asked me me if I really wanted to know. That inhale lasted forever. The question said everything. I knew what she was going to say.
And still… I said yes.
I looked at my daughter, laying swaddled in the bed, and up at the monitors beeping softly overhead. I couldn’t look into her compassionate eyes as she told me what I had suspected but had never heard said.
That my daughter, my beautiful naturally fauxhawk’d little girl with fuzz rimming her ears and a perpetually pissed-off expression on her face, was just the side of dead. Her heart beat, her lungs breathed, her skin was warm and soft, but there wasn’t a fire for survival begging to be bolstered inside of her.
There wasn’t even a spark.
Sometimes being alive doesn’t mean you’re living. It just means you aren’t dead.