There is a voice we seem to reserve for children; in their company our words are suddenly infused with pure delight and unabashed joy, becoming swing sets and seesaws and train tracks, cotton candy and carousels, afternoons at the park waiting for rainbows or magic. I wonder if we remember this voice from our own youth.

Sometimes it is the same voice we use on people we love—grown men and women who might need to feel like children again—and we listen for the chance to recognize in one another our smaller, simpler selves.

When the world is too big, and everyone just wants to be larger than life, it helps to feel little again.