Today we gather
not around a grave,
but around an absence.

A disappearance so gradual
that no one filed a report.

No sirens.
No witnesses.
No last known location.

Only a slow vanishing
from the ordinary corners of our lives.

We are here
to mourn Wonder.

Not the grand kind
that stood beneath eclipses
or walked among mountains.

No.

The small wonder.

The sacred, ridiculous wonder.

The wonder that once believed
the moon followed us home.

The wonder that stared at rain
as if the sky itself
had broken into poetry.

The wonder that found entire universes
inside puddles,
cardboard boxes,
and unanswered questions.

Where did it go?

Perhaps it was traded away
for efficiency.

A reasonable exchange,
they told us.

Wonder for productivity.
Astonishment for expertise.
Questions for certainty.

A fair bargain.

Until one day
we became so knowledgeable
that nothing surprised us anymore.

We learned the names of stars
and somehow forgot
how to look at them.

We mapped the oceans,
classified butterflies,
explained thunder,
measured galaxies.

And yet,
with every answer,
something delicate seemed to retreat.

Not because knowledge kills wonder.

But because familiarity often does.

The miracle remained.

Only our gaze grew tired.

We became fluent
in overlooking miracles.

Remember when every door
was a possibility?

Every stranger
a story.

Every tomorrow
a continent not yet discovered.

Now we move through days
with the confidence of cartographers,
drawing maps across territories
we have not truly seen.

We call sunsets ordinary
because they happen every evening.

As though repetition
were the opposite of miracle.

As though a heart beating
eighty thousand times a day
were not worthy
of astonishment.

As though seeds becoming forests,
babies becoming memories,
and time becoming history
were somehow routine.

Wonder did not die suddenly.

It starved.

A thousand small hungers.

The hunger of screens
that demanded attention
but offered little awe.

The hunger of schedules
that left no room
for wandering thoughts.

The hunger of adulthood,
which often mistakes seriousness
for wisdom.

Wonder grew thinner each year.

A little quieter.

A little less invited.

Until one morning
it packed its invisible suitcase
and slipped away unnoticed.

But before we close this ceremony,
before the final hymn of nostalgia,
I must confess something.

I do not believe Wonder is dead.

Missing, perhaps.

Exiled.

Neglected.

Sleeping beneath layers
of urgency and habit.

Because every so often,
without warning,
it returns.

In the silence after bad news.

In the first cry of a newborn.

In the scent of an old book
opening like a remembered door.

In the impossible geometry
of a snowflake.

In the sudden realization
that every person we pass
contains a life
as vast and complicated
as our own.

And sometimes it arrives
in grief itself.

For grief is proof
that something mattered enough
to break us.

What greater wonder is there
than a heart capable of that?

So let this not be a funeral.

Let it be a search party.

Let us carry lanterns
into the neglected rooms
of our attention.

Let us become curious again.

Not because the world
has become magical.

But because it always was.

The stars have not resigned.

The oceans have not grown shallow.

The trees still perform miracles
without applause.

Existence remains
absurdly, extravagantly unlikely.

And somewhere,
just beyond the borders
of habit and certainty,

Wonder waits.

Not demanding worship.

Only notice.

Only a slower step.

Only a raised head.

Only the courage
to encounter the familiar
as if for the first time.

And if we are fortunate,

one ordinary afternoon,

while watching sunlight
climb a wall,

or listening to laughter
escape a distant room,

or noticing
how beautifully temporary
everything is,

we may discover

that the thing we came to bury

has quietly been walking
beside us all along.