This Will Only Take a Minute

The DMV sign says it first,
laminated and bolted to the wall
like it was installed before anyone invented patience:

This will only take a minute.

Number 47.

I am holding number 112.

The woman beside me has aged visibly since I sat down.
A child has entered this building, grown suspicious of adults,
and learned that every government office has the same magic trick:
making time disappear while making you wait for it.

The sign doesn't move.

The sign has survived renovations, budget cuts,
three new managers, and probably several people
who came here for a simple license renewal
and left questioning every decision that led them there.

Then the doctor says it.

Clipboard in hand.
A careful smile.
The expression people wear when they already know
a sentence is too heavy to carry alone.

This will only take a minute.

And suddenly a minute becomes enormous.

A minute where the room gets quieter.
A minute where the fluorescent lights sound louder.
A minute where a person’s entire future changes
and somehow the clock still has the nerve to keep ticking.

Funny how the smallest lie
and the biggest truth
can arrive wearing the same sentence.

My father says it last.

The ambulance is outside.
Someone is asking questions he doesn't want to answer.
Someone is checking things that cannot be fixed by checking them.

He waves them away and smiles.

This’ll only take a minute.

But he doesn't mean a minute.

He means: don't worry.
He means: don't make this bigger than it has to be.
He means: I know exactly what is happening,
and I love you enough to make it sound smaller.

The same sentence that once annoyed me in a plastic chair
now feels like the kindest lie a person can tell.

I used to think those words belonged to institutions —
forms, hospitals, offices, machines built to waste our time.

Turns out they belong to all of us.

We say them before the things that change us.
Before the moments that cost more than expected.
Before the doors that close and never open again.

This will only take a minute.

Nobody has ever meant it.

Not the DMV.
Not the doctor.
Not my father.

Because the truth is much harder to print on a sign:

This will take everything you have.

And then, somehow,
you will still be expected
to stand in line.