Five More Minutes

When we were little,

it was a simple ask—

five more minutes

before we stop our play,

before brushing teeth

before bedtime

before the day dawns.

Then it becomes—

five more minutes

to study,

to make curfew,

to whisper I love you

before either of us hangs up the phone,

for finishing one more line in the story.

for planning one more trip before college.

Somewhere along the way,

five minutes stretches

into five days,

weeks,

months,

then

years—

more time

always more time

five more minutes

to figure it out

to pay off the debt,

to become the person we promised ourselves

we'd be by now.

to ask that important question.

until one day

five more minutes turns

into one more.

one more conversation

from your elderly parent

one more Christmas

when you know they are getting sicker

one more heartbeat

even if you know they are tired

one more ordinary Tuesday

never thought you’d miss

spending childhood

begging for tomorrow

then to spend your adult years

wishing for yesterday