Laying of Hands

The boy she loves has been praying over cars since he was eight years old, palm on the dashboard, willing life into the transmission. She thinks about him after the crash, how, when they were together, he prayed over the red Volvo dead on the country road and it started. She loved the way he said Jesus, full of twang and honey. She wanted to plant him in her yard like a sugar maple, so he could give her sweetness when she needed it, but the thing about a car-praying boy is that his feet love the road.

Now, stranded on the street, she wants him to uncrumple the SUV, fill in the crater on the passenger door right behind where she was sitting when the truck plowed in. She wants him to touch her collarbones again, gently salving the bruises. This is the only way she knows how to heal. She puts one hand over her heart, the other on the hood of the Ford. Arms like jumper cables as she whispers Jesus.