It’s 1991 and my mother is dressed in black. Black pants, black shoes, black turtleneck plus black nail polish. Her hair is a forest of curls, so thick and tangled that it’s enveloping her headband of horns. They’re going for a devil-baby look, so she’s completed the ensemble with a diaper; it’s a terrible, wonderful choice. I know she worries habitually—about not fitting in, not being beautiful—but here her grin is infectious. She’s beaming on my father’s lap, oblivious to the fake black tears running down her cheeks.
It’s a few years out of residency and my father is exhausted. He’s been balding for over a decade, though (like everything) he takes it in stride. Soon he’ll begin to shave his head. His weight gain is on the horizon, as is his fight to lose that weight. He’s been fighting all his life, and I worry sometimes that he’ll never know when to stop. His eyes are sporting his signature bags, souvenirs from sixteen-hour shifts, but he doesn’t seem to mind the silly outfit. His smile is small but warm; it’s hard not to see how much he’s missed her.
It’s Halloween and my parents are the only people in costume. Years later I will show them this moment, and my father will bluster and my mother will blush. They think they look ridiculous, and they do. Secretly I know that they are having the same thought, then as now, independent of one another and thirty years apart. How undeserving they are, how fortunate, to have found someone so special. How lucky they are, to be loved.