Tracks in the SnowMy father and sunrise were synonymous. If I was asked, I wouldn't be able to recall a morning of my youth that by the time I woke my father hadn't already completed one or two chores and walked to the local deli and back for his coffee and paper. By the time I made my dreary-eyed journey downstairs I would always find him sitting on his favorite spot on the couch with a disassembled daily newspaper scattered betwixt the floor and the sofa. This was his style of reading the day's events: through a frontal assault, page-folded-over-page folded as if the paper's dismemberment somehow remedied the all-too bitter news of any given day.
When I was very young, rising early was an easy task, a routine conditioned by mother that I accepted as the normal course of exisitng, no dif
