Eva LaBeau

The waterfalls in the mountains of Ontario have the same ornate beauty as some of those in my life.

She has never been one to do particularly well with compliments. 

She loves the fact that people can be so kind as to express such a beautiful opinion about her, and, of course, she is beyond grateful for the thought; she would never dispute that. 

Something inside her has always, in a way, prevented compliments from feeling the way they should; naturally, she appreciates them with such deep-seated love and incredible thanks, but they feel misdirected to her. 

People tell her she is pretty or that she is talented, but it only feels good for a moment. 

She doesn’t want to be a trivial shell of a woman with a decent-looking face; she is worth more than that.

Regardless, there’s an unwavering fear of falsehood in the compliments she receives; perhaps that’s why she feels so strange about them. 

Or, perhaps she simply believes that the opinions will change in a matter of time, just like they have before. 

She, herself, isn’t sure. She never has been, and she’s convinced she never will be.

It’s hard for her to explain to others; she doesn’t take issue with the concept of being complimented, but it feels wrong—guilty, almost.

Once or twice is okay—appreciated, even—but once it gets common, there is no stopping the doubt, immovable in her mind as she knows full well there are others going unnoticed. 

She has always been the person to sit and appreciate the beauty of those around her, and she has never understood how such beautiful people could ever be blind to that beauty. If someone directs their attention to her, however, she can never help but wonder why her instead of somebody else.

Because the people surrounding her in every area of her life, each and every one of them, are the most beautiful souls she could imagine. 

The absolute glow of their skin, the paintings in the irises of their so incredibly caring eyes, the cadences of their voices, and the contagion of their laughs—it is all so ethereal to her. Each one is different but exactly the same in that she longs for them never to leave her. 

The joy they bring to her has become a constant. Sure, they’re all pretty, but it’s not just “pretty.”

Her sisters are beautiful like a weeping willow behind an austere cabin and mammatus clouds.

Her mother is beautiful like the Pismus 24-1 star cluster.

Her friends are each immaculate in their own ways: beautiful like hanging wisteria blossoms, cherry blossoms in Japan, the Medusa nebula, an ice crystal halo, and the mountains of Ontario, Canada.

They’re beautiful like the sun, the stars, and the moon at every angle.

A life without them would not be a life at all, but a mere fallacy of an existence consistent with the pointlessness of a tree with a single leaf.

So, for every compliment she receives, she repays the favor to everybody else; in her heart, they deserve it to an infinitely greater extent. 

Because as she shows her appreciation, the compliments she had received begin to feel ever so slightly more right. 

There is no greater compliment to her than that from herself, finally able to believe that she is worthy in her life for the love she holds for others.