I'm old enough to remember when Mom would pull
into a station, roll down her window, a thin
(they were always thin) young man running to greet us:
check your oil, ma'am? Dipstick out, then in,
then out, windshield cleaned while gas pumped,
tire pressure checked as we sat in the car. Friendly and fast,
attendants earned the tip that Mom gladly gave
so that she wouldn't have to do it herself.
It had been Dad's job, filling the tank. He was the driver
in the family. Had he lived, Mom may never
have learned to drive. Being a passenger all her life-
would she have been happier? I like to lean on somebody
she often said. She leaned on me as the world
changed around us, full service stations, like my favorite
songs on Top 40 radio-popular, then-their time over-
never played again. I'm grateful for those thin
young men. How they bridged the lonely avenues
of loss. How they eased, in their own small way,
the pain of losing-first my father, then the next thing,
always the next thing. How they, too, were lost in the end.
Full Service by Patricia Aya Williams | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
