Therese Gramercy . . . the girl named Trees

Vine Ironwork


As a child she strolled across the Golden Gate Bridge on that grand opening day,
then her child rode her bike on the San Diego Freeway before cars came its way.
They shared the love of the San Francisco Bay region, its fog and the rain,
and they never tired of reminiscing about that place and time, again and again.

Her hair was bright red and curly, her daughter’s hair auburn and tame,
brushing that silky hair into long curls was a fond way to spend the first part of the day.
She instilled her wee seamstress with her taste in fine fabric and an elegant line,
and the understated details needed to fashion a timeless classic style.

She had an enchanting voice that through the years was requested in song,
her daughter spoke with a soft voice whose pitch could make men fall in love.
Her passion in dance was the jaunty jitterbug and the swing,
for her daughter it was basic ballet and choreographing her own thing.

They shared the love of the same man, as husband and as dad,
and they both mourned the lack of his presence when God called for him.
Her daughter had sewn his favorite sport shirts while she prepared his meals,
and they watched scads of ridiculously sad movies together whenever he was at sea.

As was the custom in wartime, she had been married in a simple grey suit,
so she dreamed of a dazzling white dress for her daughter, and hoped that she’d wear it soon.
Though she thought sweetly that in this instance that their parallel paths should finally part,
her daughter designed a sleek “gramercy” grey suit to further entwine their paired hearts.