The Uncharted Map of Wonder

I keep a small, smooth river stone in my desk drawer, worn down by years of being turned over between my thumb and forefinger. It has no history other than the one I gave it, yet it anchors me to a time when the world was only as large as the garden gate. Children possess this rare, quiet alchemy; they can sit before a flickering screen or a patch of dirt and vanish entirely into the architecture of their own imagination. They do not look at the world as we do, burdened by the weight of what comes next or what has already slipped through our fingers. Instead, they inhabit the present moment with a terrifying, beautiful intensity, their faces becoming a map of stories we can no longer read. We spend our adult lives trying to reclaim that singular, unblinking focus, searching for a way to be fully present without the interference of memory. What remains of that childhood capacity once the screen goes dark and the room grows quiet?