the color turquoise

your father buys
a turquoise Chevrolet
in ninety-fifty nine.
who buys that color
in any age?
it's the same year,
the same summer
that he rows his five
children
across an inlet
in Cape Cod Bay.
all of us in a leaky wooden
rowboat that he borrowed
without asking
from a neighbor
still in Boston.
Let's go get ice cream
he said.
and on we went, no life
jackets.
nothing to save us if
we tipped
or went down.
the photo of that day
has his car
in the background,
just washed and waxed.
not a dent, yet.
he looked sober
and shaven that morning
as he rowed us in his
white t shirt,
his shorts, he blue eyes
gleaming, his navy muscles
proving strong.
no one drowned.
the ice cream was cold
and sweet.
everything
there was to know
about him
was in that one photo.