A Minute Is All It Takes

I see the car coming in my peripheral vision. They're going too fast, blowing right through the stop sign.

I throw out my arm to shield my wife. I know it won't change anything; it's instinct. I hear brakes squeal, too little, too late.

They say your life flashes before your eyes, but I flash back to a single moment, to a single minute.

It's thundering outside, but inside, the church is full of light and flowers. Irises, her favorite, drape every surface. The walls are lined with candelabra, candle flames flickering and dancing in the breeze from the air conditioning.

I'm standing nervously in front of the pastor, my best friends at my side. I'm excited and sick all at once, staring at the floor to calm my nerves when the wedding march starts.

I hear the commotion as a hundred guests jostle and stand at attention. My eyes instinctively move upward.

My breath catches. She's that beautiful. Her auburn hair shimmers under the floor-length veil. Delicate crystals glint on the bodice and skirt of her tastefully fitted gown. She holds a bouquet of deep purple and white irises.

I'm captivated. I don't even see her father next to her. Slowly, she makes her way down the aisle, each second without her feeling like a lifetime, like my life will end before she stands at my side.

It's only a minute, but it feels like eternity, worship and impatience in equal measure.

She finally arrives. I step down to meet her. My soon-to-be father-in-law gives her hand a gentle squeeze before placing it in my waiting grasp. I cling to it like it's a life preserver, the only thing that will keep me afloat in the vast ocean. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a subtle wink.

A minute, that's all it took.

I hear the impact before I feel it. The crash of metal striking metal, the wails as that metal bends, folding around the oncoming car, folding my wife's side of the car. I see her head bounce off the window frame as the glass explodes everywhere.

The force shoves us into the next lane. I see a line of cars headed directly for us. More brakes squealing, horns honking. I brace myself for another impact, but the lead driver manages to veer off the road, narrowly missing us. I look at my wife.

Blood, there's so much blood. It's everywhere - the upholstery, the floor, the roof. She's mercifully unconscious, the car wrapped around her legs. I can't tell where the car ends and she begins.

I wrap my arms around her. Someone is screaming, keening. Blood begins to drip into my eyes. I must have hit my head.

I hear sirens in the distance. She's not breathing. I reach for her hand, grasp it like I did when we joined our lives together.

I catch sight of the dashboard clock. Only a minute has passed. Just a minute, like the minute that brought her to me.

A minute is all it takes to change your life.