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.
