Yesterday, I came across the meme shown above.

This viral meme suggests that the human brain remains active for about seven minutes after death, replaying its most cherished memories.

Calling someone your “seven minutes” means they are your most treasured memory—the person or event you would want to replay in your mind as you leave this earth behind.

I was intrigued.

An instant replay at death?

I found the concept cathartically soothing and deeply reflective.

Unable to get the meme out of my head, I went on my usual Google search-rampage for more information.

According to my research, the “seven minutes” phenomenon stems from observations of the dying process in near-death experiences. When the heart stops, blood and oxygen stop flowing to the brain, but neurons don’t die immediately.

Studies on animals and recordings from the brains of dying humans have shown brief, intense bursts of electrical activity, known as gamma waves, during the brain’s shutdown phase.

Some scientists have observed brief bursts of brain activity just moments after death, resembling patterns linked to memory or dreaming.

The “seven minutes” concept holds that this final surge of neural activity—caused by oxygen deprivation and a flood of neurotransmitters—can trigger a dreamlike state or sudden, vivid, and fragmented recall of memories.

An instant replay of sorts.

Other scientists are adamant that a seven-minute duration is questionable, arguing that the brain retains residual electrical energy for less than seven minutes before irreversible damage occurs. Yet they also acknowledge that the time can vary depending on the circumstances.

The bottom line? Nobody really knows.

Neural activity after death is an unfounded mystery, and there is no way to know whether the seven-minute instant replay claim is true.

I know nothing about the validity of consciousness during the dying process, but I am intrigued by the possibility.

There is no conclusive, hard scientific evidence that the brain remains alive for seven minutes or for any length of time after death.

And yet, I can’t stop fantasizing about it.

For my purposes, and at my age, the mere thought that at death, instead of being terrified right before dying, there is a possible miraculous opportunity to experience pure joy for seven long minutes stuck with me as I tried to sleep last night.

In my last moments on earth, I would love an instant replay of the person or memory I cherish most.

Who wouldn’t?

Which then prompted me to ask myself:

If I had only seven minutes to relive the best moments of my life, which would I choose?

What or whom would I see?

Whose laughter would I hear?

Who would be holding me tight?

What vision would flash before my eyes in the fleeting minutes before I faded into the unknown?

I was sleepless in New York, so I had countless hours to replay countless moments with countless precious somebodies in my head.

The idea of my brain replaying my best memories in those final moments before my death was as eerie as it was comforting.

I began instant replaying some of my most glorious memories.

“That night, we ran through the dark and then rolled around together in fits of laughter.”

“The adoration in your eyes as we held hands and climbed the snowy hill to sled.”

“Your beaming face pressed against the boards of the ice rink.”

“You were so excited to tell me that one of those adorable puppies was mine.”

“DIAPES!”

“I love you to the moon and back.”

“Making roses from tissues and a bobby pin.”

“Regrets, I had a few.”

“The goose poop was everyway!”

“Teh? Teh?”

“I was unwanted, but you looked at me as if no one else were in the room.”

“Pee Pants.”

“You jumped into that puddle, which covered you in mud, and then you hugged me tightly.”

“Once upon a time, there was AAA.”

“I winced as you hurdled over the pews during the prayer service, in your diaper-wadded tights.”

“How peacefully you slept in my arms, for hours and hours.”

“What happens in the hotel room stays in the hotel room.”

“I would take a bullet for you.”

“Our constant texting during Storm Sandy until both our phones died.”

“Not even in a tunnel.”

“Mon petit chou.”

“The laughter that poured out of both of you as I pulled you through the snow in the dark.”

“You comforted me when I was at my lowest point.”

“I love you more than life.”

“The dozen roses you bought me with your allowance for Mother’s Day.”

“I read the newspaper to you every day after school.”

“That day, you photographed me washing my hair in the rain.”

“You are all my seven minutes.”

I thought about the treasured people who had passed through my life, my triumphs, and the many stupendously happy memories I had long since forgotten.

And honestly, the memories were so vivid, and I felt so present. And, surprisingly, they didn’t make me sad. They made me ecstatically happy.

There were so many people I hadn’t thought of in years. Displaced moments, scattered memories—some so sweet I was shocked I had forgotten them.

I relived times in my life that never made it into my highlight reel, even though many of those moments defined my entire persona.

A random meme about seven minutes of replay at death was the reason I spent all night reliving many of my favorite memories of so many people I loved and still love.

Then I started wondering…

I wondered whether so many of those I thought about last night will ever know how much they mean or meant to me.

I wondered whether those who now exist only in a paradise I hope to one day join know that I think about them all the time and that they will always hold a special place in my heart.

I wondered about those who are still here but not with me—whether they know how much I love them and, if they do, whether they care.

I wondered whether I would someday be someone’s seven minutes.

If only.