He is four. At four, everything is being discovered for the first time, constantly, by a person who has no filter on his astonishment.
He noticed shadows for what seemed like the first time last week — his own shadow on the pavement — and stopped walking to stare at it. He lifted his arm and watched the shadow arm lift. He crouched down to look at the shadow's face, which made the shadow crouch too, which made him laugh until he couldn't stand up.
We were twenty minutes late to wherever we were going.
I have been alive for thirty-seven years and I have not really looked at my shadow in thirty of them. I walk on top of it every day without seeing it.
He is teaching me something I didn't know I'd forgotten. Not about shadows, exactly. About the speed at which we stop being astonished by things. About how quickly this is just how it works replaces look at this, look at this.
I am trying to slow down. To let the shadow catch my attention again. He won't be four forever and I won't always have a reason to stop.