She lies on her stomach, squeezing the pen so hard, it blanches her fingertips. She draws tiny circles, and within those circles, circles consuming circles. She grunts every few seconds, sometimes yelling at the page, and tearing it to reveal a new, clean sheet.
She’s only two, so I know how ridiculous it is to think of her as anything but a child, and know as well how we look at any little sign of burgeoning talent. Every ball thrown, every exceptional jump, every hint of harmony, we wonder which professional school might best develop their skills.
But she holds that pen like I’ve never seen before, and her eyes stay fixed, barely an inch from the paper. And she grunts every other moment, and she draws circles inside tiny circles chasing shapes, and it’s hard to see her as anything else but a young woman, consumed by her art.