The Things They Teach Us

A child asks: why is the sky blue? And you start to answer and realize you don't actually know. You thought you knew. You've known since you were seven. But now a four-year-old is staring at you with the patience of a professor waiting for a student who is clearly not prepared. Children teach you that you know nothing. This is their greatest gift. They teach you that a stick is a sword, a wand, a fishing pole, a microphone, and a horse— all in the same afternoon. Imagination is not something children have. It's something adults lost. They teach you that bedtime is a negotiation, not a rule. That one more story is never one more story. That the real reason they want the water and the bathroom and the other blanket is that being alone in the dark is a serious thing and they haven't learned yet to pretend it isn't. They teach you speed. Not fast— the other kind. The speed at which a person can go from laughing to crying to laughing again without any of it being fake. The honesty of children is not charming. It's terrifying. Because they say what we've all agreed not to say and the room goes quiet and you realize the child is right. They are always right. Not about facts. About things that are more important than facts. Like how the dog deserves a longer walk. Like how the moon is following us. Like how if you love someone you should probably tell them right now because right now is all a child has ever understood.