Gudrun’s Flowers

My mother’s friend when I was a kid
Was different in every way you could name:
Her German accent, her musical laugh
And sturdy physical frame.

My mother was sensible in clothing and style
Imparted by her Victorian grandmother.
But Gudrun grew up without a mother
And had a teenage sense of glamour.

If it sparkled, she wore it – into her 90’s:
bangled necklaces and sequined sweaters,
gold lamé fishnet stockings. Grabbing
babies tore bright jewelry from her ears.

Her flowers were prolific: in her yard,
in her home, on the dresses she wore,
on the small figurines scattered about.
She brought us armfuls and offered more.

Gudrun had colorful Oriental satin
brocade jackets with long flowing skirts,
Lounging dresses or beaded jackets.
My mother had slacks and cotton shirts.

And yet they loved to shop the thrift
stores, garage sales and sales at shops.
They laughed and talked while
Their daughters went to Bluebirds.

I dated her eldest back in the day
And noted her homemade pies.
She made deviled eggs and
Fruit salads – while we simply ate.

In her house are many china plates
of various sets, thrift store scores
but the best are ones she painted
with flowers, berries and birds.

Her kitchen contains cut glass dishes
that sparkle and lace tablecloths from
numerous parties reflecting fun times
with her many friends now passed on.

But inside that ancient, weathered face
That once looked like a starlet with a mind
that no longer remembers her children
Is a party girl of the treasured kind.