I noticed your delicate pale cheeks again in the bright fluorescent light of Century 21.
I have known you all of my life.

Long unpolished nails,
perfectly self manicured.
Nails set in a soft no-cuticle
partition
that struggle could not reduce.

I know what happens when you
quietly cry
at my apartment alone.
You never wanted to be a burden on your children,
you remind yourself as you fold my clothes,
and scrub my bathroom tile.

"Mom, buy something,"  I stop to say,
while imperviously analyzing the third floor merchandise.

You slide brazenly through
and lift a pair of long black pleated pants from the clearance rack.

"You already have fifteen black pants in the back of your closet, " I nod.

Just as my disappointed gaze is breaking,
I am shredded by the sight of  

two pink crescents on the upper ridge of your cheekbones.
They unveil hours wrapped
wiping the scathing cascade of regret, sorrow, and burden,
while all the time
pretending to stand tall.

In your gradually shrinking body,
that has carried me all of my life.