Was the lake ever that blue?

The prevailing winds of memory
                                are from the Northwest now
they are bandit winds
                                adept at clever showmanship
breezy antics
        and gusts of truth and fiction
I applaud the skillful plotting
and warm to their bucolic tales
                                yet weep at one sad story
they hurl at me over and over again
                                in the twisting words of wind
yes, my father—
they do a nice job with him
he looks and sounds like himself
he has
                                        what’s that word?
verisimilitude
                                but

was the lake ever that blue
did my father really die
was the boy really me?