the look that multiplied

 “Be fruitful and multiply,” God said, but I didn’t mean to multiply that look on a boy's face when the engine comes alive.

I saw that look in Florida, before we were dating, when he took his Audi through sharp curves that made me startle and hold on; I remember that one time I accidentally touched his hand and then pretended to be angry to hide my embarrassment.

He and the boys are restoring Grammy's old Yamaha motorcycle this week. “How fast did you go?” one brother asked another. “The speedometer is not working” he replied through a smile and blown hair, and the crackling energy of his aliveness, the thrill, reverberated between the boys and my husband; the same smile bounced from one to another, and my wide-eyed womanly hesitations only made the smiles bigger. 

What God has multiplied races past me
I’m watching the terrifying beauty unfold
and groping for the grab handle.