The light came through the high window. It made a square on the wall. The dust in the air looked like gold floating.
​He sat on the worn chair. He did not move. He listened to the house sounds. The old wood settling. The buzz of the radio.
​Being a kid at heart. People said the words easily. They meant no malice. They meant fun. Laughter. A certain kind of blindness to the hard edges of things.
​But that was not it. Not the true thing.
​It was not about pretending. It was not about loud joy. It was quiet. It was small.
​It meant the world could still be new. A shadow on the floor was just a shadow. Not a looming worry. A closed door was simply wood, waiting to be opened. Not a final barrier.
​To see a small stone on the path. To stop. To pick it up. To feel its weight. Smooth. cold. Knowing that this one stone was unique. It meant something. Not just debris.
​The feeling that an afternoon held everything. No schedule. No need for the day to earn its existence. It simply was. Full of air and time.
​It was the capacity for small wonder. To see the rain and think, Water is falling from the sky. And to think nothing more. No fear of traffic. No worry about the leak in the roof. Just the water. Falling.
​He looked at the square of light on the wall. The dust motes shifted. They were beautiful. They were moving. They were a small dance. It was good to see it. That was what it meant. To still see the small things as if for the first time. To let them simply be. That is to be a kid at heart.
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