If You’re Invisible, Can You Still See Yourself?

They say women over 40 are invisible
But I look down and see my feet
Thick ridges and soft valleys
No longer the maiden skin of a young girl
Tender buds of flesh that used to fit in the cup of a lover’s hand

Still they propel me forward
Squeezed into my daughter’s rain boots
Moving me through heavy drifts of snow
To deliver her backpack
Forgotten on the bathroom floor

Bulging from open bits of red stilettos
They hold me down as I sit alone in a corner
Watching as my husband works the room

I see them, naked and wet in the shower
As the heavy bits of my day rise up above me in clouds of steam
My feet remain solid, anchoring me to the tile floor
Keeping me from floating away too

They say women over 40 are invisible.
But I see my feet
I see my feet
I see my feet

If you’re invisible, can you still see yourself?

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