A cycle is nothing more than an unwanted, near unstoppable tradition, you know, bastard cousin of the pattern, standing haughtily in condescending judgment of habit, mistress of addiction, surrogate of guilty pleasure, toady, acerbic and unsalvageable. Feverish, urgent writing is the quiet, different child recommended for one-on-one tutoring, followed by public salary, over-enrolled classroom resignation and distant gazes among weary-eyed parental flagellation. I am different, you say for her, her nose in a notebook tracing the unimaginable lines to forever landscapes and moonlit beings. I am different and that is a relief have you seen what passes for normal? Oh child, you are the unexplainable dread of the check engine light well before the warranty expires. My poor, sweet Naya, with your sudden fascination of conical Asian hats and whimsical desire to be a pretty Vietnamese girl and maddening sketches of feral revenge. All the other daughters in our great extended family are showered with public professions of love after walking through the mud of private confessions of disappointment. I don't know if you will ever understand what I mean when I describe that my sentiment for you is as different as you apparently are from all those other students your teacher wants you to be. It is not a hallmark card, but one of your tragic drawings, a strange notion of wanting to cover you in an avalanche or bare teeth at a pack of wolves or otherwise set my immoveable will against some unstoppable threat. You make me wonder what it would be like to spread out both arms and legs against the drain hole as my life passes and whisper warnings through the trees as you navigate the length of the road ahead of you. I am so sorry that we seem so stressed by your progress because we too easily forget that you are the destination, sweet, sweet girl.