is shrinking in his head,
behind the face he's worn
out after all these years.
The clearblue eyes
he used to look
straight through
seem overcast,
opaqued,
blank pools.
My father's mind diminishes.
His thoughts are ashes
in the wind.
I only let myself
be kind to him,
quiet and patient.
In a dream one night
I slap his face and scream
"Where have you put my father?!"
And I bolt awake,
the palm of my hand
stinging; the ringing
of my own voice
in my ears.
-- Deb Cooper