Memories.

Sleepover

I was waiting for my mom to text me back. It was a long shot. My family had always followed the traditional Mormon rule of “no sleepovers.” But then again, we were not a traditional Mormon family anymore. Not since Dad left.

The canal road stretched in front of us. Cornfields lined either side. I wasn't even sure if it was legal for us to be here, and I wasn't exactly the type to break the rules. The sky was clear and stars hung above us; the moon was just a crescent.

“Did your mom text back yet?” Mark slowed down to let Michael and Kyle walk ahead of us. I looked down at my phone.

“Nothing yet.” Mark didn't respond, just looked up at the sky.

“So, aliens?” he whispered. Aliens? My head jerked over to see his eyes wandering across the stars, jumping from pinpoint to pinpoint in the sky.

“What… what do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, [REDACTED], if the universe is so big, there has to be something like aliens out there.”

“Like little green guys who come to Earth and probe—” He laughed and cut me off.

“No, like, people like us.” I glanced at the path in front of us and turned my head back toward his. He was looking at me, his eyes shining in the darkness. Emotions.exe process booted. No. Shutting down Emotions.exe. Not here. You barely know this kid. He's fourteen. You're sixteen. That's… not something you're allowed to feel.

“I guess I haven't thought about it.” I pried my eyes away and looked up at the sky, picking a star, imagining life there. It didn't seem far-fetched. I was pretty well versed in the scriptures—they talked about Kolob, the star where God lived. By extension, I figured that made Him an alien.

“Hey, you two!” Michael shouted in front of us. He was walking backwards.

“Aren't you going to trip?” I shouted. He smirked as he glanced over his shoulder.

“I guess you could say that walking backwards is a bit of a hidden talent of mine.”

“But you have to glance over your shoulder to make sure you don't trip?” I asked.

“Are you two going to catch up to us or not?” My phone vibrated in my hand. The screen nearly blinded me, even though it was on the lowest brightness setting.

“Yes, just make good decisions,” my mom texted back.

Loss

The first loss I can remember—gut reaction—was Vince. That isn't his real name. Maybe that makes me a bad person—I can't recall his name, only the impact he had. It was sophomore year of high school. He rode the same bus as me, was in my seminary class, and I had labeled him as weird. Really weird. I don't even know if we were friends.

I was in algebra class. Second period. I wasn't allowed to have my phone in class, and being who I was, I never checked it. My teacher was going on about something; this memory doesn't have sound to me anymore. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and in a daring feat, I slid it barely out of my pocket to check it, half expecting Mom's name.

It was someone from my Young Men's group. Someone I hardly talked to but who was in the same seminary class as me.

“Vince has passed away.” Four words. Four words that knocked the air out of me. My head did a front flip. The room around me rotated forward, and for a second, I thought I was going to fall out of my chair. My teacher noticed something was wrong, but before she could say anything, I asked if I could go to the bathroom. With a skeptical look, she let me.

Two steps out into the hallway, I opened my phone. Another text from the same individual.

“We're all wearing white T-shirts today to show solidarity.”

In an instant, I switched to text my mom. She brought me a white T-shirt. It was just a little too small for me. I didn't care. I wore it. I moved through the day wearing something that felt like it was restricting my breathing. Maybe it wasn't the shirt that did that.

I don't remember much of the funeral. Closed casket. The first one I had ever seen, honestly. I remember his picture in the foyer of the church. The only other thing I remember is four young men from his ward singing a hymn at the pulpit. I had never heard it before. But it was one that would leave an imprint.

“Be still, my soul, when change and tears are past,
all safe and blessed we shall meet at last.”

The next loss? I guess it was my dad leaving. This one didn't feel like grief. I suppose it was. The grief just felt different. It felt like anger—anger covering up the fear and sorrow. The 2008 market crash forced him to get work out of town. My parents grew apart. There were a lot of factors here that I won't get into. The thing that has stuck with me, though, was more devastating than him leaving.

If someone—my dad—someone who was supposed to love me unconditionally—could leave, then what was stopping anyone else?

The next loss didn't come for years. I was twenty-four. Two deaths. One year.

Grandma. She lived next door to us in Eagle while I was growing up. She would feed the ducks with me. She would watch me and my younger sister perform musicals we put together in her living room. She would make maps with me of made-up worlds that existed only in my mind. When I wrote a book in eighth grade, she was one of the first to buy it. Yes, it was poorly written, littered with grammatical errors and plot holes so glaring that they'd make anyone embarrassed by proxy. She displayed it prominently next to all of her other books. It sat between Stephen King and Ernest Hemingway.

Her mental health started to decline, and quickly. Because of my estrangement from my father, I stayed away. I hadn't seen her since before I left on my mission in 2016. Six years to do something, and I didn't. She passed away, and I didn't say goodbye—at least not how I should have.

That was May 2022. Then September dropped in. I was sitting at my desk at work, staring at a never-ending file of code. I'd type a variable. Delete it. Type it again. My phone buzzed on my desk. Austin's name was on the screen. My debate partner. My ASB co-president (we lovingly rebranded as Co-Supreme Overlord Dictators of Eagle High School). Halfway through retyping the variable, I picked up my phone.

“Hey, Megan [REDACTED] passed away a few days ago.”

Head front flip. Restricted breathing. Didn't get to say goodbye.

Megan. Austin, Megan, and I were the three musketeers. We would sit on Austin's trampoline late at night in sixth grade. We would share secrets in what we lovingly called the “Losers Circle.” I thought Austin thought I liked her when there was clear chemistry between them.

I hadn't talked to Megan in… years. We were friends… are friends on Facebook. She struggled with a lot. By high school, we had drifted apart. We were just different people. By college, we were strangers who shared a “Losers Circle” together.

Austin was in DC, so he couldn't make it to the funeral. Am I allowed to say this? They sucked at the makeup. When I saw her face, she was purple. I hadn't heard exactly how she died. Now I didn't need to. So, yeah, the makeup sucked. And now I couldn't unsee it. It made me sick. My head had done a front flip earlier; now it was my stomach.

I knew I had been distant, but could I have done something? Could I have sent a message—anything? I knew that wasn't realistic and I was blaming myself for things I couldn't change. But… maybe I could have? My therapist said that that wasn't fair. He said, “Would you say the same thing to a close friend?” “No. Of course not.” But I still couldn't help but apply my broken logic to myself.

I sent a message. After the funeral, I sent a message to her Facebook page. I've just gone to look for her, to see what I actually sent. Her profile is gone. It's like she never existed. The message I sent has evaporated into the air. Who knew that in writing this I would experience my most recent loss?

Loss. I try to hold on to… everything. I hold so tightly, even though it's all so painful. It's like I'm hanging off the edge of a cliff and the only thing to grab onto is a board studded with rusty nails. Either fall into the abyss or hold on tighter.

This essay doesn't have a neat ending. It never has. I wish I could say some magic words that would change something—change my way of thinking. I wish I could say something that would bring comfort to those who have lost someone.

The most helpful piece of advice I've heard is this: Grief is like a ball trapped inside a box. Right after impact, the ball is the biggest. It nearly takes up the whole box. And when the ball bounces up against any wall of the box, the feelings of grief come back—anger, sadness, and bargaining, all in full force. As time goes on, the ball gets smaller. It still bounces against a wall—those feelings don't diminish. They feel just as strong as they did that day, but the ball hits the wall less often. The ball continues to shrink with time, and experiencing grief happens less often.

I don't know if the ball ever disappears. I think it sticks around. I kind of like it that way. If there were no ball, then I wouldn't care. I wouldn't care about Vince, Grandma, or Megan. I wouldn't care about those who are still with me. Those who've stayed. Yeah, the ball hits a wall sometimes. Sometimes at the most inopportune times. The pain comes back. My heart, my head, my body, my spirit all ache. But it also reminds me of the good people I've lost. If it doesn't hurt, then it doesn't mean anything.

Something painful

August 28th, 2015. I was seventeen. We went to the fair. It was a good night. Kyle got a goldfish from one of those rigged games where you throw a baseball at a stack of bottles. He was going for a stupid purple dinosaur or something. Instead… a goldfish. We took a picture on the couch together.

Me, Kyle, Mark, Michael with his crutches, Mark's girlfriend, and the goldfish. We let the goldfish go in the pond in the backyard. It was still warm out, but I doubted the fish had a chance of survival. What else were we supposed to do, though? Michael and I stayed off the rides. I could have gone on them, but Michael had torn his ACL during soccer. I didn't want him to be alone watching all of us spin at breakneck speeds just to be plastered to a wall.

I still have stupid pictures of us standing outside the rides. I remember standing at the fair, looking at Michael. A week prior, I had confessed something to him. He didn't have his crutches. Or at least I don't think he did. The ACL incident must have happened that week, I guess. We were walking on the Greenbelt behind his house, ducks on the Boise River behind us.

“I guess…” I tried to gather what I wanted to say. None of the words felt quite right. All of them felt dangerous. I had practiced saying this to myself in the mirror for a few mornings. Every time I got close to whispering it, I'd decide that I was running out of time and needed to get in the shower. I had never said it out loud. Not even to myself. “I guess…” I tried again. Michael didn't interrupt.

“I haven't always liked girls.” The words escaped my lips and just… hung there. My brain kicked into overdrive. “That was like sixth grade, though, not now. That would be wild.” Then I word-vomited everything that I could. Talking about a made-up girl I'd said I kissed at EFY. Talking about any girl that I thought was remotely pretty. Talking about everything to try to bury the truth under an avalanche of words.

Mark, Michael, and I did policy debate—the kind of debate where you speed-read (spread) evidence so fast the other team can't keep up. Well… I was doing that now. Spreading evidence to cover up the truth. To avoid something that might hurt. Something that… might make him leave.

Honestly? I don't remember what he said. I just remember how I felt.

I imagine he said something like “[REDACTED], no matter what happened in the past or what's happening now, we're still friends.”

That was at least how I felt. I didn't say it, though. Those three words that were the actual truth. I said half of the truth and then buried it. Quickly. Talk about burying your—Well… I didn't bury it for long.

We let the goldfish go in the pond. The stars were out. I turned to Mark.

“So, aliens?” He laughed. The next words spilled out of my mouth before I could catch them. “Mark, can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” He smiled. “What's up?”

“Oh.” I reached up and rubbed my collarbone. “I meant like… up in your room.”

“For sure.” We left the group outside laughing about something stupid that was said, probably by Michael, and made our way upstairs to Mark and Michael's room. Mark sat on the bunk bed. Michael always slept on the bottom bunk, so I guess he took a seat on Michael's bed. I took a seat on the floor. “What's up, [REDACTED]?”

“I…” The words got lodged in my throat like logs on the Boise River. Nothing, not even air, could escape. “I…” I repeated the word and looked down at the carpet to avoid him seeing the tears welling up in my eyes. I wasn't sure what to do with my hands, so I started picking fibers on the floor.

“[REDACTED], you don't have to say anything if—”

“No, I need to say this.” My mind was screaming. It was running subprocesses in my head for an exit hatch. Some other reason I might need to talk in private. There had to be something. Anything. Something to get me out of here. To save me. I had tried to ignore it since sixth grade. Tried to pray it away. Tried to pretend for too long. “I am gay.”

I thought saying it out loud would finally bring me comfort. Like the three words leaving my body would remove the hurt. The hurt came in tenfold. It caused my head to burn. My spine felt like it had been stabbed. My heart slammed against my ribcage like it was trying to break out. I needed to run. I needed to get far away from here. If I left first, then it wouldn't give Mark the chance to leave. I almost did.

“[REDACTED],” his voice broke through, “I love you, no matter what.”

That's it. That's all he needed to say. Did it stop my mind from burning, my spine from stinging, my heart from hammering? No. But he wasn't running. He wasn't leaving me. He was giving me something I hadn't experienced. Unconditional love. Not from family. Not from friends. Not from God. Maybe this is too strong, but if there is a God, His name might be Mark or Michael.

In the coming weeks, I'd come out to more people. I'd be outed to my bishop. My bishop would force me out to my mom—the last person on this earth that I was planning on telling… in his office… with him there. But in that moment, in all the moments in the coming weeks and years, I knew one thing. Not everyone ran. Some people… some people stayed.

Time

When I was ten, I did a strange thing. It was Christmas morning. The presents were all wrapped under the tree, its lights giving off a soft glow in the basement of my grandma's house. It was magical. That's when I did it. I closed my eyes. I told myself that I was capturing this memory—whenever I closed my eyes again, I could pretend that I was just about to reopen them right at this same moment.

That wasn't the only time. I did that a lot of times, capturing picture-perfect moments in my mind. Trapping them. Keeping them close. Then when things got a little scary or hard, I'd close my eyes and pretend that I was back. I'd pick one that I wanted off the shelf in my mind and I'd breathe in that moment. I'd tell myself that when I opened my eyes, I'd be safe.

I knew that wasn't true, but I needed to pretend—even for a moment.

Sixth grade. Science class. I sat in the back. The teacher was pointing at desks, assigning seats for the quarter. First day of school. First class of the day. The floor still smelled like bleach from being cleaned the week before.

“And…” The teacher paused. “Jake, you will sit in the back next to [REDACTED].”

A boy stepped out from the crowd of students. Baby blue eyes, soft curls in his blond hair, a smile that almost made me forget my own name. Those three words—three damn words—three words that would change everything exploded into my head. For the first time I had three terrible words that would explain why I felt so different from everyone else. Three words that would defy who I wanted to be. They caused my mind to burn, my spine to feel like a knife had been stabbed into it, and my heart to beat against my ribcage like—I've said this before.

I closed my eyes. Squeezed them shut. Recalled the first memory I trapped. I stood in my grandma's basement. Before science class. Before Jake. Before those three words. The time before the time I knew I was fundamentally different. In this memory I was safe. Safe from labels. Safe from who I was supposed to be versus who I was… am.

The thing is, I had to open my eyes again. Time wasn't trapped, rewinding, or resetting. It was marching forward. Ticking faster and faster toward everything that I was afraid of.

Time is the only thing that I've found is consistent. Yet in the human mind, it speeds up when we don't want it to and slows down when we need it to disappear. A clock tells us where to be and when, but it also tells us when we become who we are.

I studied a lot of calculus in college. My favorite subject, actually. Ironic—I once thought I'd never understand math. Calculus taught me that there are infinitely many numbers between zero and one. You can keep halving the distance—a million, a trillion times—and there's still more to divide. One second. Infinite time. One minute. Even more infinite time (mathematicians, don't come after me because there isn't “more infinite” than infinite). Seven of those minutes? A lifetime plus some.

Time can't be stopped. You can move a boulder with your might (or tools if it's too heavy). You can cause an explosion with chemistry. You can solve equations with math. You can reach the soul with a sentence or chord. Time? Time doesn't care about any of that. You blink for a second and infinity has passed before you.

Before you know it, you're twenty-eight, releasing a book about time on your birthday. And you're still a kid at ten, eyes squeezed shut, trying to hold on to everything you thought was perfect.

Time isn't perfect—it's only perfect in precision. Even at ten I still had worries, stress, concern. Traveling back to that time only trades my current fears for older ones. The thing that brings me hope: those stresses, those old fears—they didn't kill me. They didn't stop me from getting here, sitting with my eyes squeezed shut. Sitting in science class with my eyes squeezed shut, sitting in Mark and Michael's room with my eyes squeezed shut, sitting in my bishop's office with my eyes squeezed shut, I am still here.

Time does stop sometimes. Not literally—we can't actually freeze it. I was sitting in my office on Thursday, September 25th, 2025. I glanced up at my clock, 11:45 AM. I looked down at my phone. 12:35 PM. The clock had stopped. Hands frozen in time. Seven minutes later? 11:52 AM. Time that had escaped me.

I can't stop time. But I sure as hell can live in it. Eyes open. That kid who squeezed them shut? He made it.

Seven minutes

Six seconds. Vine had a limit of six seconds. A second too short. Yet six seconds can hold infinite time. And strangely enough, time for someone to say something wild without context.

“I was watching Vine today,” Michael said as he pulled a yogurt from the fridge. I dropped my backpack down where I always left it, next to the counter.

“Tell me something new, Michael.” I laughed. “Hand me a yogurt too.” He tossed me one. Thankfully not the spoon. Senior year—was it everything I'd wanted? No. But it was what I needed. Sure, some things I did want. Before Mark and Michael got their driver's licenses, I'd give Mark my keys. We thought it was funny for some strange reason. It was reassurance that I'd be able to drive them home. It was reassurance that I was needed. Mark and Michael had their permits then, but I still drove over to their house every day after school.

“Shut up,” he said, handing me a spoon. I took a seat on a barstool at the counter as he leaned his back against the counter across the kitchen. “Someone said this thing, and it got me to thinking…”

“You? Thinking? That's new.”

“[REDACTED], seriously, let me say something for once.”

“Fine, fine. You saw something on Vine.”

“Someone said something about how the brain still has activity for seven minutes after someone dies. I looked it up online and there are these wild theories about it. That the person is reliving all of their memories during that time.” He took a bite of his yogurt.

Seven minutes? Seven minutes to relive everything. What would I remember if I had seven minutes?

Lucky, my childhood dog?

The first sleepover with Mark and Michael?

Coming out to them?

Vince's funeral?

Dad leaving?

“Sounds… interesting,” I said after a moment of silence. Michael caught the moment and tilted his head. He set down his yogurt.

“What are you thinking?” What am I thinking? Not sure. So I did what I'd started doing with Mark and Michael—I just started talking.

“What if, and hear me out—” I tapped my fingers on the counter.

“Oh, so I have to hear you out, but you get to interrupt me after—”

“What if during that time, instead of reliving their memories, they get to do the things they never did? Get to go on a roller coaster they have always wanted to go on. Get to say goodbye to people. Get to… I don't know. Maybe this is stupid, but get to fall in love.”

Michael stood quiet for a second. Then he smiled.

“I hope that's true,” he said, picking up his yogurt again. “What would you do, [REDACTED]? You know, with your seven minutes.” The question shocked me. I wasn't sure. What would I do? Maybe just spend seven more minutes hanging out with Mark and Michael. Maybe that would be enough. We would stand in the middle of the street, like we would do on occasion, staring up at the stars, talking about aliens and the meaning of life. Like we knew what any of that meant.

Maybe I'd finally confess to them all of my thoughts and feelings. Seven minutes isn't enough time to say everything. But maybe enough time to say what I need to. Maybe it would be just enough to take down the masks and be real—more real than I've ever been.

“Not sure,” I hummed.

“Me either. But you know, that would probably be a pretty good idea for a book.”

“Idea for a book?” Mark made his way into the kitchen after taking his dog, Georgie, out for a walk. Michael caught Mark up on the conversation while my mind drifted, trying to figure out what I would do with seven minutes.

“Huh,” Mark chuckled. “You two are certifiably insane. But, yes, I agree with Michael—good idea for a book.” They both turned their attention to me. They knew I loved to write; they had always known that. They also knew I wasn't good at it but supported me regardless.

“I'm going to write it,” I said. I thought it was going to be my next big project. “But you two have to promise me one thing.” They both stared blankly at me. “When it becomes a movie, we all are starring in it.” They both smiled and nodded.

“FIFA rematch?” Mark interjected.

“You cheated last time,” Michael protested. “Why would we want to play?” He shot me a quick look, expecting me to back him up.

“Cheated? No, you just suck.” Mark laughed. They both turned to me again, expecting me to be on their side.

“Seven minutes. Seven minutes of a rematch. We will put a time limit on it.”

Conclusion = false

This is it. I've told my editor, my friends, and myself that this is it—the last thing that I'll write about this book. The final update that will go on the website. Seven Minutes was written in the liminal space between who I was and who I am. Eli, Rowan, Mara, Cal—they're… they're all me. Each of them has a piece of me.

Eli, the programmer.

Rowan, the artist.

Mara, losing her faith.

Cal, living with grief.

They were all a part of my mind. Now they exist—some in real time. Some in seven minutes. Now, now I get to say goodbye to them. So, this is my send-off. Everything I've written, everything I've released, everything I've put my soul into dies here. Or maybe lives here, forever. With every eternal second that passes, Seven Minutes exists in that space.

I'm done closing my eyes. I've fulfilled my promise to write this. I've done it. I can set the pen down. Step back. See myself in these pages.

Seven minutes was all the time I had.

I've been given more than seven minutes. I've been given the time to become myself.