I. Our father was a tall man, a gaunt man, would hit like airplane whiskey, in the snowfields of the heart was supremely treacherous and knowledgeable in all things avalanche. One day up at the glass cabin we could look past his sunken eyes and see that he no longer knew the cold; he fell ill that winter. II. April is the saddest month. Winter has, again, failed to kill us, and when it cries I cry too. Not that I wish it had succeeded, but once, we were small and our father w