Sometimes he is back in our house in Anaheim,
——–—sometimes with his family in Taiwan. Or, further

—————–—back, Xiamen, port city the British gave another
name before the war. He yells in his sleep

——–—at the Japanese soldiers occupying his childhood,
laughs with his favorite sister’s husband, who died falling

—————–—off a ladder fourteen years ago. Time gets
mixed up, slides like language, like belief. He thinks

——–—in English most often but still counts in Mandarin,
language of school, when he had to ride his bike home

—————–—twelve miles through the tropical rains of Taiwan,
their deluge unleashed at the same hour each afternoon.

——–—When a classmate told him about God, my father asked
if God always answered prayer. His friend said yes,

—————–—so my father said, I will ask him to stop the rain
today. His friend said nothing, went home full of doubt,

——–—knowing God doesn’t work like that. That it’s not
so easy. My father pedaled home under skies that darkened

—————–—but did not give way until he was safely inside.
When his friend later asked, Now do you believe? my father said,

——–—Yes. And it was the friend who was the most amazed.

 

 

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Katherine Lo is a public high school English teacher and writer in Southern California. Her work has previously appeared in Rattle, Alaska Quarterly Review, Spillway, River Styx, and Tahoma Literary Review and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

 

 

 

Photo by Alex Dukhanov on Unsplash