Five More Minutes
(Thoughts that came from the movie of the same name)
“Please, just five more minutes,” she asked.
Wanting more time with her grandfather at Christmas.
My mind jumped with such a thought
to Grampa, my father’s father.
Could I have five more minutes
and if so, where, doing what?
Ah, easy peasy.
It would be in his old wooden boat
with peeling paint of many colors.
He’d sit in the back, one hand on the tiller
of the little 7 ½ horse Evinrude
that would cough and spit blue smoke
now and then.
His other hand holding his old rod and reel.
Sitting on the bench seat next to him would be Shep,
his Siberian Husky who in is nearly every memory.
We’d fish like we did so many hours
in that old boat on the cove off of the St Lawrence River
so many decades ago. 
Yes, that would be five minutes well spent.
Of course, the whole premise of five more minutes
leapt from one person to another. 
How about time with Johnny, my little brother
taken away forever when he was seven and I was nine. 
What would we do? What would I say?
Maybe read him the poem I wrote about him
and his Black Birthday of when he would have been 50.
Those words might let him know how much I missed him
even after decades and decades had flown.
And then, I’d tell him again “I’m sorry”, “I’m so sorry.”
I was supposed to be the big brother and protect you
not be the reason you couldn’t grow up by my side.
To be truthful, I have skipped past the two whose faces
appeared with my thoughts first. 
What about Mother? 
I’m not sure what I would say but I know I would tell her
about my little ones; some she knew; and some who came later.
I’d tell how they grew and what they have done
and how sad it is that none of them got to grow up
knowing her as their grandmother or her knowing them.
And then there is the other “one”
who I don’t have to name.
Just five minutes? 
Wow. For just a second my mind raced as I tried to decide
how we would spend those 300 seconds.
Would I want to tell her about the thousands and thousands
of words I’ve written about her and the times
that were ours; of when there was “we”? 
Would I want to hold her hand and look into those green eyes?
Maybe joke and tease like back then, so I could see that smile.
Would I ask her to play the guitar and sing one of our songs?
The possibilities were infinite for just a moment 
I just couldn’t decide . . . 
Ah, but then came the thought leaving absolutely no doubt.
Only one thing made sense.
We would dance. 
Michael Mathews
November 30, 2021
3:31 PM Tuesday afternoon
On the lake near where I hear rumors of home