2 Minutes

The top blue shelves above the living room windows were filled with antique toys: Batman with the yellow bat emblem; Tom and Jerry action figures, the cat chasing the mouse; Archie with his arms crossed, surrounded by his friends.

I was resting up against the 1950s Los Angeles gumball machine—my favorite. Lying on the floor, looking at everyone quietly. Each time I dropped in a quarter, a colored ball would roll out through the chute. I’d plop four pieces in my mouth, chewing to keep myself busy.

Next to me was a life-size Superman doll, his red cape draped across the floor. His ’50s boy-next-door look—slicked-back hair and perfect-toothed smile—reassured me a guardian was in the room.

Black foldout sofa chairs sat across from the huge television at the center. That’s where we watched My Best Friend’s Wedding. That’s where I learned her mother had a stroke—oxygen to her brain stopped without warning, leaving her alone in a room full of hapless superheroes and cartoons until her daughter arrived. She rushed to call the ambulance—had she arrived a minute later, her mother would have died. The woman she described as Herculean lived on a respirator for nineteen days before metamorphosing. Her personality, altered by brain damage, was no longer the same.

She sat on the floor with packages tied in red and white ribbons, Santa and his reindeer sledding under the moon’s gaze. Her brown hair was pulled back, revealing pointed ears and a tender neck. Her big brown eyes drifted between conversations with cousins and friends, occasionally catching my stare—my affection translating into a head nod and cocky grin. She knew I was content just watching her.

The kitchen, filled with the smell of freshly baked dough and hot chocolate, the sound of coffee brewing, and family members chattering, had one ceiling lamp in the center. Somehow, I could see the reflection of the light in her eyes, emboldening the brown into a darker countenance.

Then two minutes lasted a lifetime. A melodic strumming from a twelve-string guitar interrupted the commotion. There I was—chewing, legs spread out, knees up, a perfect view of her in between. My hands across my stomach, head tilted ten degrees upward, I let my imagination tell me a story. I could clearly see her—us.

I noticed her slightly crooked teeth, which perfectly fit with her jawline. The mole above her left eye was new to me. I saw the shade differences in her happy and neutral expressions—she loved being outside with her friends, walking under the cool summer sun.

She slowly removed the hairband, her hair unfurling across her shoulder and back. Then I noticed the raking guitar, just before the laid-back drum landed—something close to reggae.

“This song, it’s haunting. Scary, even,” she said, grabbing a piece of loaf in the kitchen, wearing blue jeans and a beige cardigan over her black V-neck.

Time froze. The people in the room—still. Her laugh… silenced. Everyone disappeared. I was on the park bench where we met, ten years ago. In the distance, sitting on a patch of green grass, she was looking at the sun falling west, her knees to her chest.

“The only thing that matters to me is her,” I told myself.

Peaceful, she never moved until darkness swept over us. I walked to her.

“I will show you the way,” I told her.
“No, you won’t,” she replied. “And that’s okay.”

I picked her up from the ground, her mother calling our names, waving for us to come to the car. Hands clasped, we walked through the parking lot gates.

“Hey,” she said, “where did you go?”
“Not sure, but I love you very much,” I told her. The room in motion again.
“Never a doubt,” she said, without a beat to think. “I love you, too.”

“There’s plenty of room in Hotel California,” the singer told us. “This could be Heaven or this could be Hell.”

Heaven.

“One day we will find each other,” she told me. She extended her arms, grabbed my hands with hers, and pulled me up. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed my cheek. Our heads pressed together before she snuck a piece of cinnamon bread into my face.