Mustache

Daughter’s got the photo album out, she’s on the page with me in my experimental facial hair period, with my brass-colored John Lennon glasses, goatee, and a look that said I didn’t know who I was.

She just looks, laughs, and says, “that’s you, with a mustache.”

She doesn’t see the rest, what I see when I look at that photo, me on a boat, of a man I didn’t talk to, didn’t have a relationship with, my own father. Here we are, my daughter sits on her father’s lap, me and her, and this thing we have, looking at old photos, and for the first time, for me anyway, at this photo, I’m laughing too.

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