What’s a minute, really? In a minute, in sixty seconds, you can ruin my life, or make it whole again. You can rip open wounds, or sew them neatly back up. In those mere moments, you can say the words that will forever change my life.

In one minute, you can grab me, you can do things to me that will take a lifetime to forget. You can do the damage in one minute that will take years to repair.

In sixty seconds, I can take the razorblades and draw them across my arm, letting the blood spurt out. In those same sixty seconds, I can down the pills that will end it all. It only takes one minute to open the medicine cabinet, pull out the tiny white capsules. It only takes one minute to pull a glass from the shelf, to fill it with the last sparkling clear water that I will ever drink.

What’s a minute then, really? It only takes a minute to end a life. But I suppose it only takes a minute to save a life as well.

After all, it didn’t take nearly a minute for you to say, “I love you.”