Mustang Man

"I am one with my car."

My son made this solemn declaration as he downshifted smoothly and rounded a curve at high speed, the sound of the exhaust burbling a manly bass harmony in my ears.  We then leaped forward as he accelerated confidently, speeding us on our way to the courthouse to pay the sales tax on his sleek, black 2001 Mustang GT.  I admired his skill and his alertness.  He saw everything, anticipated everything, all while singing sonorously.  I leaned back and enjoyed the ride.

That was at least nine months ago.  The love affair with his car burns on, always on the verge of consuming him totally.

This morning he asked me if I had heard that he raced a super-charged Mustang.  "No?" I answered.

"He whipped my butt!" he confided, "Waaaaaaa-aaa!" he emoted, beaming with the memory of his brush with such raw power, the need for speed.

Then he spread open his arms and invited me to hug him, which I did most eagerly.  He had already been out and started the car to let it warm up.  Clutching his hot chocolate, he opened the door, stepped out, turned to me and grinned.  "You hear ma car?" he asked with a tone of deep satisfaction.

I nodded my affirmation, grinning myself.  Then he was gone.  Although I could not see him, I heard the Mustang crooning its love song to my boy as they roared through the autumn air.  Second gear.  And third.  Hurtling exuberantly into Monday in a dangerous combination of horsepower and testosterone.  Taking risks and feeling alive and invincible and POWERFUL.

"My baby boy is exulting in his manhood," I thought.

I was at once filled with awe and fear.  Lord, take care of my precious son.