Five Seconds

Five Seconds 

By Annette Camp 

January 10, 2026

One second.

Nothing moves.

I stare at his chest

as if attention could coax it upward.

Two seconds.

The room is too quiet.

I imagine air waiting just outside of him,

hesitant,

as if asking permission.

Three seconds.

My chest tightens in imitation of his.

I don’t know if I want the breath to come

or to finally stop asking for more.

Four seconds.

Time stands close enough to hear me plead.

I hold two prayers—

unsure which one love permits.

Five seconds.

Air fills his lungs again.

His body remembers what to do

even as everything else is forgetting.

Relief arrives first.

Then guilt follows close behind.

I let both sit with me

because there is no room left to choose.

I stay and count.

I watch.

I wait.

up and down,

up and down,

in a chest

that is deciding.