What would I do if we had five more minutes together?
Part of me feels as though I would want to hold you and comfort you, but perhaps that would simply be returning to our final years together, when you were slipping away and all I could do, in my helplessness, was to keep you as comfortable and as carefree as I knew how.
But I think the truer desire, if I had five more minutes in your presence, would be for you to comfort me.
Tell me that you are okay–no, tell me more than that.
Tell me that you are experiencing a peace and joy unknown to humankind, that you now understand the entire structure and meaning of existence and that it is beautiful beyond understanding.
Tell me that there is a loving God, that you are blissfully happy and that someday, I will understand all of this, as well, and that everybody that I have ever loved will understand it, too.
Give me five more minutes of what you spent a lifetime giving to me: a sense of safety and a sense of purpose. And an unflagging belief that I was loved completely and without condition.
You were and are and will forever be a blessing to me, Dear Elaine, Sweet Mama.
May my gratitude ring throughout time, to the farthest edges of the cosmos.
I love you, Dear One. Now and always.