Grandma at forty-five— had six children and one on the way, wore a tatty brown wig over waist-long crystal-black hair, had a studious husband to whom she never spoke, never! sold fish wrapped in newspapers, down on the lower east side, had a couple of words in English and for fun wrote little jiggly Yiddish rhymes. Mother at forty-five— had three pretty good kids, a sick stay-at-home husband with whom she quarrelled only behind closed doors after 3 a.m.; wore a sleek mannish bob, distinguished for its elegant (like her) silver streak; had a love affair with words; you'd never know she left school after eighth grade to go to work. She filled a dozen cabinets with journal notes to be destroyed upon her death, and hid a couple of really fine poems in the bottom drawer. I at forty-five— had pouffy hair dyed several shades of gold, two children for whom I quit my job in radio as "good moms" did in that benighted time, a gracious spouse with whom I did not fight, but to whom I cried a lot before I learned the art of give-at-least-as-much-as-get, volunteered in politics, studied acting, wrote some plays, discovered self-creation workshops, and wrote poems like this. My girl-child, now at forty-five— looks maybe twenty-nine, has real born-with yellow hair, cut short post-modern style, has a partner with whom she shares three domiciles, four cats; practices the law in courtrooms, and for refreshment climbs rocks roller blades scuba dives runs, swims, piano plays, but if she's writing poetry I haven't heard.