"One day this will be you," you said to me on a windy Spring day in Portland, as my sister closed in on her decision. Your eyes sparkled with the happiness you felt. And I felt it too. We walked hand in hand through the campus, and I dreamed of that same moment, 6 years later when it would be my campus we were strolling, still father and daughter; still hand-in-hand. "I'm so proud of Elizabeth, and I'm so proud of you." I saw you smile to yourself. And then there was silence. A calming silence that didn't need to be broken. I couldn't imagine my same experience any other way than how you told me it would be. But now your warm hand has been replaced with cold air. There is nothing to grasp onto for support, and I sometimes find myself drifting. Those feelings that we so outwardly spoke exist now only in my heart; hidden from the world where nobody but you and me can see them: the way it was supposed to be. I long to hear you tell me that you're proud of me too. Without that, I find myself afraid. And when the fear settles, and I will always wonder how different things could have been at this moment right now. It's still not fair that I've had to go through High School without you. That I can't be held by you, and feel your pride that it is me who is your daughter. How I wish I never took you for granted. How bittersweet are these times which will be coming to a close not soon enough. Final decisions have been made, and the tears are welled up; waiting to be shed. It's all too short, these years that we've shared, and I dread for the possibility of never seeing some again. But then there's the flip-side: the feeling in my soul that what has yet to come will be the best of all. And now I finally see; the only thing worth betting on is hope.