Five Minutes

I only have five minutes, my loves. Five minutes in a lifetime. It's a drop of rain in a downpour. It's a single snowflake in a blizzard. And yet I need to take those five minutes and let them be the drop that overflows the river and the flake that starts the avalanche.

I flip through my memories like trading cards. Should it be the five minutes I walked through the woods with your grandfather? The five minutes I watched Mt. St. Helens explode? The five minutes during my first play when I reveled in the applause? The five minutes of my first kiss when I felt the softness of lips touching mine?

Flipping faster through the memories, I lay the most valuable ones in front of me: my wedding day, my honeymoon, the moments I found out I was pregnant, your births, your graduations, your weddings, the days you made me a grandmother. I stare at these precious memories in their shiny cases and wonder if they're the one.

And then, I see it shoved down in the box. Smudged from repeated touches, corners bent, this memory is obviously well-loved. I pull it out and know. This is it. This is the five minutes I want to share with you.

It was a Sunday morning. The sun shone through the windows and sliding glass door making the dust motes sparkle in the air. The room smelled of banana pancakes and maple syrup. You two were still very small, Elizabeth still in diapers. Daddy was in the kitchen while I was on the computer sipping tea and reading emails. The clink of pans being washed was the background music to your laughter as you ran in circles.

"Play a song, Mama!" Joseph cried.  Smiling, I pulled up Home and hit play. The first notes filled the air, drowning out the sounds of dishes. Elizabeth bounced on her sturdy legs while Joseph kicked and flapped his arms. My foot tapped and then my leg. Jumping up, I ran the three steps to the living room and danced with you.

I raised my hands and sang at the top of my lungs. Delighted Joseph grabbed a maraca and shook it in the air, marching in a tight circle. Elizabeth wiggled her diaper clad butt and reached her arms up to me.

I picked her up, burying my nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling her sweet maple smell, feeling her soft curls tickle my face. She giggled and arched her back as we spun and spun around the room. Setting her down, I looked over at Daddy, leaning against the counter grinning at us.

"Dance with us, baby."

He shook his head, "Nah, that's okay. You guys are doing fine."

I swayed my hips in nearly forgotten moves and shimmied to him. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I smiled into his face. "Dance with me." Daddy let me pull him into the living room. Releasing his hand, I grabbed Joseph's. Dancing in circles that came faster and faster until his feet flew from the ground as he laughed.

Daddy picked up Elizabeth and danced around the room, holding her hand and leading her in a more sedate circle; a prelude to their dance on her wedding day.

Outside, cars filled with people heading to church passed the house. Bells rang in the distance. Dogs were walked. Kids rode their bikes. Gardens were tended.

Inside, we danced until we were breathless, collapsing on the couch as the song ended. Joseph tugged on my arms, "Again! Again!"

Heaving myself to my feet, I hit play again. And again. We danced until my legs hurt. We danced until we were laughing too hard to continue. We danced until, finally, we all settled.

And I sat down at the computer, taking a sip of cold tea.

And Daddy went back into the kitchen and finished the dishes.

And you kids, you went back to playing. Your boundless energy sending you into fits of solo dancing.

Those are the five minutes I want you to have. We've laughed. We've cried. We've fought. We've grown apart and we've come back together. But most of all, I want to you to remember we danced.

I'm participating in a Red Dress Club writing prompt today. "After you have died, your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see?" Intriguing, no?

On an unrelated note, I'm also reviewing a garden claw over at Makes Fun. That's right. A garden claw.