A smooth oval stone, fitting nicely in my hand, charcoal grey at one end shading to burnt sienna with subtle lines of something translucent, polished by years of tumbling in surf and sand.

Stones are so old. We value “old” objects, things passed down from our parents and grandparents. We treasure art from centuries ago, prize structures that have withstood the elements or the destruction of war for thousands of years. But this stone was made in the crucible of our planet millions of years ago and I tread on it and countless others like it every day, without a single thought about its antiquity. I do not understand the miracle of how it, or any of what we see and hear and touch, ever came to be.