It was at Nana and Grampa's in the country – a mild, early spring day. Maïa came running into the house and pulled at my arm.

"Come outside Mama. I want to show you something I don't need you for anymore."

Those words, spoken with such exuberance and personal accomplishment.

Those words, air bursting out of lungs, pride leaping out of heart.

Those words, broadcast through air, sound waves dissipating in rivulets around us.

Those words, moving my curiosity to witness her great discovery.

Those words, tearing away, irreparably, a tiny piece of that cord binding me to her.

Home

I got in my inbox, a few weeks ago, a call for participants. A woman doing her PhD in sociology was looking for people to interview on the topic of home. I can never resist these kinds of appeals, so I responded. My assignment: send in a picture that depicts home for me, and make myself available for an interview on the topic.

The picture, above, is what I sent in. It was the first photo that came to mind, and it was the only one that fit.

It's a shot I got of Maïa last November, on an unseasonably warm day. It was the first time she rode her bike on her own. Here, she's gliding down our little lane, sure as the breeze that carries her.

The day after I sent the researcher my image, we spoke for about an hour. The details of our conversation are unimportant. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. So I offer up this one as my 1000 words to you this week.