“I just want five more minutes to sit and talk with you again, to look into your eyes and hear the sound of your voice.  It would be the most beautiful five minutes of my life.”

A Saturday or two ago, that was the chosen quote for our Facebook page.  In case you haven’t noticed, unless there’s some major moment that demands attention, Saturdays are devoted to quotes that acknowledge Grief with all her difficulties.  When I first read it, I was struck by how appropriate it seemed.  After all, how many people would give almost anything for just five more minutes with someone they’ve loved and lost to Death?

But then I started thinking, something I am prone to doing far too much of, according to at least one of my children.  And my first thought was . . . would I really want five more minutes?  Just five more minutes?

My mother once told me how hard it was when I would come home from college.  Just about the time she’d get used to me being gone, I’d show back up.  And just about the time she’d get used to having me home, I’d disappear again.  Surely a one-time return from the dead, no matter how brief, would be even more heart-wrenching.  Would I find when it was over, that it really wasn’t what I wanted at all — that it only made it harder to accept they were gone?  When my five minutes ended, would I feel as though they had died all over again?

And what would we talk about?  If it was my grandfather on my dad’s side, I’m pretty sure I’d start off by asking where the first funeral home in Savannah was.  I’ve kicked myself I don’t know how many times for not asking when I had the chance.  And then my second question would probably be did my great-grandparents buy the beautiful white frame Victorian on the corner of Church and Main to be their personal residence—a plan that changed with my great-grandfather’s untimely demise—or was turning it into the brick-clad funeral home the plan all along?  Beyond that, I’d probably apologize for never having read Lorna Doone and tell him I was the lucky recipient of Charlie Weaver’s Letters from Mama.

But I have a feeling that’s not the kind of five minutes the author had in mind, although it could be, if that was what you wanted or needed.  I have a feeling those five minutes are meant to be spent with your spouse . . . or your child . . . or one of your parents . . . or maybe even a dearly loved sibling.  If that was the case, how would you spend five short minutes?  Would you cling to that person, hoping you could somehow manage to keep them with you forever?  Would you sit and hold their hand and stare into their eyes while telling them how hard it has been without them?  Or would you just beg them to talk to you so you could hear the sweet sound of their voice with no distractions . . . no answering text messages or phone calls or checking your email or Facebook or Twitter?  Knowing your time together was limited, would there be anything on earth more important than that one person?

Five minutes.  It seems so very short.  Until it’s all you can have.  And then, as a friend of mine is so fond of reminding me, anything is better than nothing when nothing is all you have.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

The post Five More Minutes appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.