Proud

My borrowed tiny person,
Innocent in all, loud and tiny
Only capable of lying down,
Sleeping, eating, breathing
My borrowed smelly thing

I was young
I totally underestimated the moment,
Where you would move from,
Relying, depending,
To trusting
I realized
Years later when your hand grabbed my hand,
To cross the street you alone could,
Easily, safely, naturally
That you grabbed my hand

So we walk together and you are two ages,
At once, three years old and fifteen now
Independently, insecurely
Looking at the world
I realized

That what I’ve done mattered
In those small moments throughout
It mattered to you, subconsciously
And I am fucking proud that
You are holding my hand