MIRROR, MIRROR

I tell her she’s beautiful several times a day. I choose a different variation of the word almost every time the compliment unfolds itself within my speech pattern… pretty, gorgeous, stunning… but regardless of the word choice, the sentiment is always the same. I’m sure every father feels similarly towards his daughter, but I can’t help repeating myself time and again during the hours when the sun dances overhead and I tend to continue doing so even when it tags out with the moon.

I tell her because I want her to see what I see. 

I tell her when she’s covered in dirt and sweat from a few runs around our yard because I want her to know beauty isn’t married to an ideal image of perfection. I tell her when she’s upset while tears cloud her vision because I want her to know beauty doesn’t always equate happiness and there are times where it hides under the layers of something seemingly less desirable, a disguise removed to reveal itself within the side effects of trying times or lessons learned. I tell her when she’s exceptionally kind because I want her to know beauty isn’t just skin deep. I tell her because I know, unfortunately, one day someone somewhere will try to convince her otherwise. I tell her before I kiss her goodnight and again after she wakes in the morning because I want her to hear it, I want it to ring in her ears as the bookends of her days.

I tell her she's beautiful because it's true.