Proud of You

Personal Essay

The last thing you said to me was “I’m so proud of you.” I never thought I would question you, but I wondered why. I was six or seven when I first
thought that no one would love me as much as you.

What did I do to deserve your pride? Your seemingly unconditional love?

I remember you in so many ways. Though the way I remember you the most was through your hands. They were arthritic and swollen, your skin thin enough to show every vein. They were so strong. Held so many babies, wiped away so many tears. Taught me so many things. They were the strongest hands to ever hold me.

When you told me you were proud of me. What did that mean? I never doubted you. I suppose I doubted myself.

Your eyes; always clear, ever kind, sharp, intelligent. I wish I could see myself the way you saw me. Always gazing at me with a love and tenderness that I’m sure I mirrored with my own for you. If I could see what you saw, what could I become?

Would my hands hold the same strength as yours? Would I share kindness as freely as you? Would I be able to see the truth as clearly as the clarity I sought from your wisdom?

If I could see what you saw on your last day when you looked at me and held my hand tight and told me that you loved me. Told me that you were so proud of me. What would I be now?