Mirror of the Father

Morning light fractures in the cracked bathroom glass.

I catch my brow—same crease,

same weight of waiting stacked like bricks.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was the slow tilt of a tired nod,

a grimace held too long in the jaw.

My father’s face flickers back—

not a ghost, but the slow settling

of skin over bone, a quiet inheritance.

The reflection blurs,

and in that moment,

I am both stranger and kin,

trapped behind glass that knows too much.