1966

KRISTEN DANIELS

Everyone who knew my parents saw the easy romance they shared for forty-one years before my dad died of Lewy body dementia. My mom used to leave my dad notes and sign them with a doodle of a character she’d made up called Boog. In her wallet, she still carries a small card he made her that reads, “This card is good for an unlimited supply of ‘I Love Yous.’” Walking behind them meant I’d probably have to see his hand over the back pocket of her jeans, so I often upped my pace. In most photographs from my childhood, their toothy smiles shine as they stand shoulder to shoulder behind me and my sister. In one of my favorites, they’re slow dancing at a wedding: hands intertwined, eyes locked. In another, they’re laughing as they hold up plastic cups of water to celebrate the end of a successful river-rafting trip.

In this picture, taken in 1966 while at San Diego State, my mom smiles at her college boyfriend. When I found the picture and asked about the guy in the white T-shirt, she said, “What’s to say? We dated for a couple years. I was never in love with him.” I’m fascinated by how this photo differs from so many taken of my parents. It’s the overall dullness of her expression that I find most striking—her lukewarm smile and blank gaze, so unlike the enthusiastic and tender way she looked at my dad.

He’s been gone seven years now. When my mom’s friends encourage her to date, she says she had her love and it was true.