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What’s Your 7 Minutes?
The moments your soul replays before the light takes you.
They say when you die your brain keeps working for seven minutes.
Seven minutes where time stops following the tick-tock —
where all the love in your life flashes by like a bad movie reel,
and your soul sits in the front row for the last screening of your existence.
I wonder about that sometimes.
Wonder what mine would look like.
Wonder what would make the reel.
Maybe it’s the mornings where the sun poured across the bed
and for a few brief seconds, everything just stopped.
Maybe it’s all the pets I’ve ever loved —
their quiet devotion, their soft bodies,
the way they always seemed to know just when to rescue me.
Maybe it’s him —
the way he looked at me, like I was the whole story and not just a piece of it.
That love you only feel once,
the rest of your life you just try to remember.
Maybe it’s Christmas morning with the kids —
the laughter, the paper tornado,
the way their happiness filled the house so completely it silenced the hurt.
Maybe it’s wind through the car window on a day that felt like forever,
or a song that still breaks my heart in the best way possible.
