As the mime peels off one expression and wipes on another,
so Parkinson’s swipes and skims my father’s face.
The mask advances like a glacier, almost imperceptibly, over years, decades.
flattening his forehead,
leveling his brows,
trampling and freezing
A frigid veil unfurling.
Absent the lively encasement of raised brows and creased lids,
his eyes resemble orbs of dark ice.
Emotion buried underneath.
Once a mirror of my own expressions,
now, muscles seized,
his face often
I want to push up the corners of your eyes and return the glint of the sprightly jokester.
I want to pull up the corners of your mouth and return the guffawing grin.
I want to see you look angry.
The mime sweeps his hand over his face, replaces tragedy with joy.
My father’s mask remains.