I see my father’s face in the sky. In the bank of clouds soaring overhead, I can make out his wrinkled brow. When the sky is washed in violet blue I sense his calm, as if he were reading a book of poems to me. The flash of lightning mingled with snow reminds me of his temper which can be fierce at times, blanketing my day in a sense of dread and caution, unsure of how bad it will be or how things will look in an hour’s time. And then there is the night sky, when he is asleep and I am free to roam the streets, the bars, soaking up juicy conversation like a parched earth after months of crystalline blue sky.