They look so happy in black and white—
my mother with her short and fitted skirt
and my father, trim and handsome,
escaped from his tux.
They are running to my grandfather’s car,
the one they will crash that evening,
but at this moment, they are still
in innocent bliss, dodging the handfuls of rice
hurled at them by friends.
They are out of focus, a blur of joy,
running hand in hand right off
the ragged-edged pages toward
that aqua blue Ford convertible
and all the other colors life has to throw them.