Bio Note: I live, write and have a small therapy practice in Seattle, WA. For twenty one years I worked in AIDS services. I practice the Wise Woman Tradition of herbalism and I have three poetry books, publications can be found on my website: julenetrippweaver.com.
Boys Prefer Trucks
My sister adopted a boy, she agreed to whichever sex came first. Her surprise, boys really do like trucks, like girls like dolls, it’s not a myth she insists, I did nothing to encourage this love of every truck he sees. He bounces in the car, points his finger at garbage trucks, tractor trailer trucks, cargo trains, she emphasizes, Boys love trucks and trains. She insists she had no influence, but she bought him a hand carved wooden train set in Pike Place Market, spent more than I make in a day. He’s a boy-king traveling the world with my sister, the lawyer, growing him up international: Paris, Vienna, Italy, and when he turned nine they visited his home country, Vietnam, to see if he had interest in connecting, he did not. He’s Americanized with a fleet of toy trucks, plays basketball. His aunt, we have zilch in common. A geek on his computer, his phone, he builds robots. Off to college, he's ready to truck around the world.
Work Trip to the Zoo
It was a self-care day with my case management team, we went to the local zoo then for Mexican food. I look at the picture—three of us sitting on a bronze hippo like we’re riding a horse, our arms out we ascend, two of us women, closer to girls back then, and Scott, the youngest between us. It’s Scott who’s gone, he got lymphoma and his wife, a social worker at the VA, insisted the most radical intervention, but something went wrong. Hard to believe at twenty-eight with a son on the way, a daughter he adored, that he would fail. We had that rare day to laugh at the zoo, one minute on a hippo, then the slide into mud he took. I didn’t get to the hospital for a final visit before the coma, before the difficult decision to end life support had to be made.
I Don’t Want to Write a Poem About Costco
or retail merchandise or young girls who escape pregnancy until they turn 20. But, she worked in a woman’s clothing store grew to hate how the women tried on designer clothes, but never bought a thing, they made a mess for her to clean up, folding and refolding. So she moved to the men’s department used her smile, her long blond hair, asked them what they needed. She handed them the perfect fit they bought exactly what they came in for and more. She suggested items to accentuate, a belt or a tie, they appreciated her interest. It was much easier she even found a husband. She thought this was her escape, till she hit fifty, endangered like the rest of us.
Originally published in Blossom Bones
©2020 Julene Tripp Weaver
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