Children cannot return our lost time, but they do return our lost attention — forcing us to re-notice the world we rushed past.
Nothing brings back the hour, but there’s a peculiar alchemy in reading the same picture book for the fifth time, in building lopsided forts, in answering why the sky is blue with fresh curiosity. We are drafted into their wonder, and in that conscription, we are liberated from our timelines.
Parenthood, grandparenthood, or simply being an adult who listens — each is an invitation to rehear the music in the mundane. The clock keeps moving; our gaze, however, learns to linger.