THE MUSTACHE

Had he not sent her a photograph

it would never have existed.

It never would have become a part

of our family's lore.

The mustache, I mean.

Though the hair on his head

was as black as a raven

it came in red.

The mustache, I mean.

The photo showed my father

on board a cargo ship

as a young army lieutenant

on assignment in Thule, Greenland.

It was too damn cold to shave.

Which was why he had it in the first place.

The mustache, I mean.

For years before their marriage,

my mother’s father had had one

and she hated it.

His was red also.

Come to the wedding without it

or don’t come at all.

The mustache, she meant.

And so when my parents made arrangements

for their reunion twelve months into their marriage—

six of which were spent apart—

my mother told my father, 

I’ll be there to greet you

when your ship comes in

but it better be gone.

The mustache, she meant.

And so on that arctic day on the dock

while the military band was playing

she, the only woman there, saw him 

and began waving. He was so handsome 

in his uniform on the deck of the massive vessel

among his men, standing baby-faced,

broadly smiling, without it.

The mustache, I mean.

Its disappearance gave them, I believe, 

the covenant they’ve carried these sixty-five years.

Their marriage owes it everything.

The mustache, I mean.