You will never feel my pain, she says.

A celebration

is gold and pink and big, pretty bows. 

You are

small and weary and too large and too bright;

your makeup is too orange. 

"I can see you," she says. 

And you take that like a sucker punch 

again and again and again

until you are 

40

50

60 

and retelling your daughter 

about what it means to

be a woman.

What it means to celebrate

ourselves

and others. 

From a great distance

I feel safe 

and alone.

I am wrapped in the quilt that my mother made me.