The Smallest Classroom

The caterpillar is not trying to teach you anything. It's just eating a leaf. But you're four, and a caterpillar eating a leaf is the most important thing that has ever happened. This is the age when everything is school. The puddle is a lesson in what shoes can survive. The dandelion is a clock you get to blow. The worm is a friend you haven't met yet who lives in a house made of dirt and does not mind visitors. You don't read yet. But you are reading everything— the dog's tail, the shape of a cloud, the way your mother's voice changes when the phone rings. You don't know metaphor. But you said: the moon followed us home. And you were right. You were exactly right. The world at four is a poem that hasn't been ruined by knowing what a poem is. Every color is favorite. Every animal is friendly. Every question is the right question: Why is the sky? Where do the birds go? Do fish know they're wet? I don't have the answers. But I will sit here on this sidewalk and watch this caterpillar with you for as long as it takes. Because you're right. This is important. This is the lesson I forgot and you're teaching me again.