I would like to watch myself at six years old. I don't want to be six years old—I’m happy in my sometimes graceful, sometimes trialsome and tempering aging. I am where I am supposed to be in life.

But to spend a day, renewed in the wonders, to see my thoughts, to feel my feelings—not fully, not intimately, but from the outside—might renew a bit of that childhood wonder that seems to grow progressively more scarce as the decades insistently tick by.

The joy of rocking on a wooden rocking horse, watching Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green Jeans, Underdog. A first taste of my distaste for liver and onions. Walking through the woods, finding caterpillars, or toads, perhaps even a garter snake. Wearing my Superman pajamas, knowing I am but a boy, but knowing just as surely that I am a superhero, entering dreams, leaping tall buildings, saving Jane, the girl in wire-framed glasses and the pink dress who lives next door.