the mothers

your mother's  mother
lived to be a hundred
and three,
you remember
her sipping a small
glass of red wine
as her boney hands
scrubbed
the front stoop
with a toothbrush
until it gleamed.
her mother made
it until
ninety nine, even
after taking
a bullet in her
chest when
throwing coal
into the furnace
where her son had
thrown a handful
of bullets. now your
mother is cruising along
at eighty-two.
up until three in
the morning, putting
puzzles of windmills
together.
stirring pots of red sauce
to be saved
and frozen
for another day.
the men are all dead.
there is no moral
to any of this.