"What's infinity?"
She was drawing at the kitchen table, and Maya was making dinner, and Maya said, "More than you can count" — automatically, the way you answer questions that are asked while you're not paying attention.
"More than a billion?"
"More than that."
"More than a billion billion?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. Maya was chopping something. Then:
"So if I counted forever I'd never get there?"
"Right."
"But you said it was a number."
Maya put down the knife. She hadn't said it was a number. She'd said more than you can count.
"It's more like a direction," she said. "Bigger and bigger, no stopping. It's not a place you arrive at. It's more like — " she paused. "It's like the way 'far away' isn't a specific place. You can always go farther."
Her daughter considered this for a moment. She had a crayon in each hand and was looking at the ceiling.
"That's weird," she said. "I thought it was a number."
"A lot of people do."
"So what is it?"
"An idea. A direction."
"Like north?"
Maya hadn't thought of that. She almost said yes. Then: "More like a compass. North is a direction, but the compass lets you keep following it."
Another pause.
"Okay," her daughter said. And went back to drawing.
Maya stood in the kitchen for a second, not sure what had just happened. She'd meant to give the quick answer and move on. Instead she'd said something she wasn't sure she'd thought before. An idea. A direction. A compass that lets you keep following it.
Her daughter drew something that looked like a house.
"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"How many numbers are there?"
Maya laughed. She couldn't help it.
"That's the same question," she said.
"I know," her daughter said. "I wanted to see if you'd say the same thing."