My mother made mistakes. 

Moreover, my mother made me misplace. Mom made me mistreat, misfire, mistrust and maintain. Mostly, my mother made me manipulate. My mental means make me make melodies of my mother's mechanical mainframe. Mentally, my mind has melted most of my memories. Maybe this means my medication and masquerading is metaphorically mundane. 

Maybe my mother made me make my most miscellaneous mindset manifest till it misdirected. Microorganisms materialized and my mind magnified the mystery my mother minimized. My meditation is misaligned.

My mother maybe misses me, maybe she misses monetary means of my morphology. Maybe what my mother means is that (modestly)missing me makes mother muse maliciously. Moms might make a mystery to many, miraculously motivating most but my mother managed my misery. More mental mess and memorable milestones.

My mother's methodology motivated (masterfully) my maniacal mishaps, made my merriest moments mere masks and made ministers, minstrels and music mandatory midlands. My mementos magically mustered emotions my mother masterfully monopolized. Meaning my most meaningful molecules modified, making me miraculously mystified.

My morals' motility made my mother mumble morbidly. My morals motivated mother's migraines, manipulated more mind-games and made mother my mate, to misinform and medicate. My muse is monstrously micro-scoping maternity.

My mother made mistakes. 

Poetry takes second place to only God when it comes to how difficult it is to list its limitations. It is full of contradictions and it is ever-evolving. It can be ugly and beautiful, rhythmic and senseless, lengthy and brief, all at once; it really depends on its audience. There was a time when we could say the one thing poetry definitely consisted of was words, but even a beautiful woman, a physical being, can be classified as "poetry" or a "poetic work of art". Today, there is only one real way to define poetry. In a word, we can say that poetry is, was and always will be subjective. 

I want to believe that Jesus controls my life. I want to blame my mother and say she has control of my life. I hope that I have control of my life. The truth is that none of the aforementioned really have control. Control is not a subjective word. Whatever controls us is our master and we are slaves to it/them. 

I met my master in 10th grade. We dated for a month then. I stayed by his side, never leaving, watching as he dated other girls, never stood up for me or choose to spend time with me. We dated again about four years after we met and then broke up again a year after that. In total, I have been under master's control for nine years. It's a cute system really. He doesn't need to tell me to do something extraordinary for Christmas or his birthday. I'll go out of my way to do three crazy things, if only it will make him happy. He has been able to easily kiss, touch, do more than touch me in moments of solitude. He is the only one I would ever let near my vessel. I am his and I tell him all of the time. If not tell, then I definitely show it. 

I even began following Jesus more seriously after discovering how important He was to him. I've tried really hard not to put him before Him anymore but I often fail miserably to do so. 

I know his Find My Iphone password and the handful of times I have felt it was impossible not to enter his login credentials, it has led me to feeling more heartache than when my father passed away. 

Master hasn't talked to me for the past month. His birthday was somewhere in between the silence. I still made sure his other close friends took him out, I bought him two gifts and they sit on top of my bed frame waiting for him to throw me a bone, a scrap of attention. I know that, like everyone says, I should respect myself more and demand that he treat me honorably, but the truth is that he never has, aside from the one successful stint of dating. He has this power over me that people say I'm giving him but I don't want NOT to be free. To me, its as if he holds the key to my being free of his control. He has not attempted honoring me since we broke up and yet, it hasn't stopped me from waiting at the door, ready to serve him, ready to please him, ready to love him. 

I want my master to be Jesus because I believe He died for my sins, even the sin of idolizing a man before Him. I want to blame my mother because she frustrates me and even made me curse today, an action I seldom do. I hope that someday I will have control and wait for honor. I want to be ready to be served, to be pleased and to be loved. But today, I still feel unworthy. I still feel I have no control and that what I want most in this life is what controls me. I have wanted and cannot imagine wanting anything more than for him to love me. These chains are nearly impenetrable. Nearly. Definitely no key today though. 

I didn't agree to go out again for the sake of enjoying each other's company. Obviously, He knew what type of food, atmosphere and conversation I would like; I was not in any position to question that, but I did have questions and that's why I'm here again. Being, for lack of a better word, teleported everywhere during the first date was pretty spectacular. Spectacular and scary beyond belief. But I wanted this date...if you could call meeting your creator a date...to be normalized. I knew I did not have to request this but He let me choose the setting this time and I found that very chivalrous of Him.

Why the diner down the block from my house and not same fancy, expensive eatery you ask? Well, I've never tried the stuff and for some reason, I just didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of The Almighty. I know, I know, "all riches belong to Him", etc., etc. In hindsight, I know I could have chosen a better place but this diner was special to me. It was where my dad and I went. It was where I had a date that I was fond of. It was a good place--no bad memories and I hoped to continue this stride with HIM.

I've never been good at dates and get-to-know-you type of conversations but He made our first date easy and welcoming. He let me arrange the date's atmosphere this time and I just knew He would let me also choose the topic of conversation. I felt so silly preparing for this but I did it anyway. I narrowed down my countless questions down to three. He already proved to me that He was there in the beginning, that He knows and sees all and that He sent His son to die for the sins of all man. I saw glimpses of evidence and even (somewhat) understood the purpose of needing sins to be 'forgiven/paid for'. The three questions I had today were a bit specific, somewhat personal and probably not 'second-date' friendly but now that I knew He was all I had heard He was from my pastor, I didn't want to just be in awe. I hoped that didn't make Him think less of me, although I'm sure I'm not one of His proudest creations.

He was not late and I would not describe Him as being early either. He was just on-time. It was weird and made me question the abstract notion of time itself but I was eager to jump into my first question. I opened my mouth to speak but then hesitated, feeling like maybe I should let Him settle into the booth. Being that we were not in some celestial, boundless place this time, I wondered if the glow I saw surrounding Him would make bystanders gawk or appear mystified but they seemed to be ignorant to the fact that He was God. I eyed my surroundings and then heard Him chuckle, as if He knew why I appeared perplexed.

He whispered in my mind, "They do not know. For their eyes see but they do not see. Only you know who I am and that I AM."

You would think that after a whole night of this, I would have gotten use to His way of communicating. I thought it would be mightier and more vocalized but I have yet to hear His voice like I would hear a fellow human's. He spoke to me in whispers and those whispers were always just for me.

"Oh,..okay. That's kind of cool," I replied lamely.

"So what's good to eat here?" He asked, humoring my desire to be on "my level" for this date.

"Don't you already know?" I mused. He beamed with delight at my attempt at humor, a sure sign of my comfort.

"Well then let us have two of them," He uttered as the waiter, who had yet to introduce themselves or ask for our order, set down two plates before us. The double-burger deluxe was always my favorite thing to order here and it was never ready for me before I even had any of the bread.

"Hey Nicole, you order ahead for two of the usual, right? Good call, just had a delivery today. I had one earlier; the meat has never been so fresh," stated Mario the waiter as he skipped away clueless about my current suitor.

"Thanks...God. That was pretty cool." He reached out for His burger and began to bite into it. It wasn't until that moment that I realized how strange it must be for Him to eat with...well me. To eat at all! Do eternal beings eat?

"Hey. So, do you actually eat food?" I inwardly kicked myself for stepping outside of the three-question plan I had laid out.

"You were made in my image, outwardly and inwardly. I eat of course. Yet I do not need this substance or any particular substance. I can be satisfied on praise alone. I do like chocolate though. One of my finest moments." To that, I had to stifle a giggle.

I knew it was now or never. It was time for the first question. I was anxious and switching my actions between twiddling my thumbs and nibbling on french fries. I finally looked up at God to see Him with a patience I was way too unfamiliar with. He knew I was yearning to ask. He probably even knew my question. But, he awaited for the moment where I'd have the courage to ask. I could only hope He wouldn't feel offended.

"Why did you take my dad away?" I finally blurted out after realizing He knew I was wanting to ask. "I mean I know you take dads away all the time, but I wasn't ready. Its been two years now and I'm still not ready...at least I don't feel ready. Everyone is so hard on me but He was always there for me and then you just took Him. I know I have you but until last week, I didn't even know your voice. And I miss his all the time."

"Everyone passes from this life to the next. The timing will always be uncertain to man. No one can ever really know. A gunman may think he is mere seconds from ending a life, but if it is not my will, it shall not be so. I can allow that bullet to do little to no damage. I can allow cancer to take a life, as it did your father's." God paused briefly and sent warmth through me, a warmth that made my whole being g acknowledge His love and then he continued, "None of what I allow is ever meant to hurt my children. It will never work against them. I know your father well and he knew me. I spent 13 hours talking to him the night he died. He did not want to leave. I did not want to hurt him by taking him away from the family he loved more than life itself. We walked many miles through time that night. I comforted him by showing what remains for your mother, your brother and for you. He cared most for you; you were his angel and we would not leave until we saw your life. After, he received more than enough comfort and gladly allowed me to take him."

He eyed me as if to check that I understood. Strangely, I did.

"It will not be your weakness any longer to miss him or think of him. It was always meant to be your strength. Next question, there are two more, yes?"

I nodded, inhaled a breath finally and continued eating. After a few moment passed and He ate along with me, I started the conversation again.

"Actually, I think I only have one more question. I was going to ask why you allowed me to be broken-hearted over this boy for the past nine years but I know the answer already now. So, I only want to ask one more thing.

"Okay," He whispered.

"What is the absolute funniest joke that's ever existed or going to exist?" I quickly asked and then added, "...that I will understand!"

He smiled warmly, affectionately and dare I say, proudly. Was this a test? Did most people continue asking "WHY" instead of trusting that He knows best and loves most fervently? I'm really not sure. But as I listen to the joke, grinning from ear to ear, I suddenly realize that I am eager for date three.  

There are only two explanations as to how this could be possible. The first is that I must be dreaming, but something about the weight of gravity that my dreams always lacked, suggests to me that this is reality. The other option is that my father is not dead. This explanation could not be true. I remember kissing him goodbye, right before they closed the casket. His face was cold and the cancer had left his cheekbones extremely visible. Yet, here my father stood before me with the chubbiness of his cheeks returned and his hair looking full and thick, unlike the last memory of it being thin and fragile. When I went to answer the doorbell, this may very well have been the last person I ever expected to see. 

My body seemed to process the miracle before my brain and for some reason, by the time I was evaluating how round my dad looked again, my arms were already wrapped tightly around him. The tears seemed to have formed before any words could and I pulled back just a little to make sure I did not imagine my father's face on some poor man who simply shared dad's body-type, pre-cancer. It was him alright. 

I inhaled his scent because after all these months since he passed, it was the one thing I realized I missed most about him. Thanks to his weekend softball games and poker nights, Dad had a stink that was just so unbearable at times, but not having it around, has made life feel pretty empty. 

As the breath traveled inward, I immediately felt alarmed. My silent panic seemed to perfectly coordinate its timing with my mother's distant yelp. Why did my dad smell like cigarettes? My dad has never smoked a day in his life. Those poker games did not produce the typical, society-decreeing offensive smells. They simply made dad smell like stale chips and farts because no one there ever smoked inside, and my dad also never drank alcohol. I know the terrible truth of the other scents because, every Friday after work, that's where you could find my dad and I. He would pick me up, we would drive to the friend hosting the game that night and dad would always sit at the end farthest from the door. I always sat to his left. I never played, but I was there to watch every game in it's entirety and the men took little to no time to feel comfortable swearing, drinking and farting in front of a young lady because that young lady's father had kept bringing her along. It was their 'guy's night' after all. 

My mom's abrupt sound signaled to me that she must have been standing some ten feet behind me, in the middle of our hallway, with a great view of my dad, standing in the doorway, and me, frozen with my arms wrapped around him. I heard her slowly approach and so I slowly let go. I distanced myself enough from dad and turned so I could get a good visual of both my parents standing, right in front of me. 

Mom's eyes immediately filled with tears but she kept her distance from dad, eyeing him questionably. 

"Hello Li," dad said in a near whisper. My heart felt like it jumped into my throat and I could barely contain my joy at the sound of hearing my dad's voice in person again. 

"James? J...James it that you? When did you... how did you...what?" 

My mom's confusion was expected, as it clearly should be mirroring mine at the sight of dad standing before us looking healthier than he ever has. However, her choice of words suddenly elevated my confusion immensely. Why was she calling my dad James? His name is Michael.

"Mom," I started with uneasiness as I looked more directly at her, "What are you talking about? It's dad! I don't know how... but it's dad! I told you! I told you God could do anything. He can bring people back to life". She looked at me and suddenly, she seemed to be the one panicking. She always over reacted. This is why I was always closer to dad. He understood my faith and supported it. He understood my hopefulness and always matched it. I missed him so much and finally, I would have someone who could understand me again, someone who would love me and treat me like spending time with me was the greatest commodity in the world. I did not want to deal with mom's atttitude right now and so, I simply turned my full attention back to dad. He had shifted his gaze downward and I suddenly felt shameful. Did I upset him? Have I changed too much? Is he disappointed in who I've become over this past year and a half? It didn't matter; I was too eager to tell him about everything. 

I yanked dad into the house and toward the dining room table, forcing him to join my action of sitting in the places we always sat. It was so fulfilling to see dad in his spot again. 

"Dad, I missed you so much. I heard our song on the radio today and I can't believe you're here now. Tony walks dogs now but he's happier. He should be home in like an hour. Did you just come back? Did you make a deal with God? How did this happen?" The words were flying out of my mouth so quickly that I barely noticed how uncomfortable dad was getting. Barely. 

"You have to leave right this second," my mom stated sharply. I could not believe the audacity of her. Why would she treat dad like this and why wasn't she more excited about this miracle? 

"I came to pay my respects. That's all." My dad was making no sense. Neither of my parents were making sense. 

"Can't you see what this is doing to her. You can't do this. He wouldn't have wanted you to." Mom stepped nearer to my side and laid a somewhat protective hand across my shoulder. 

"Li, I'm already here. Just let me say what I came to say." The more dad spoke, the more the unfamiliar smell filled the air. Cigarettes. Something about that made this all seem blurry. I decided to allow my mind to wonder but only about one thing: Why was dad calling my mom 'Li'? He called her many names, but never her actual one. 

'Rambo', because he said she was fierce and took crap from no one. 

'Ping' because it was the part of her full name (Li Ping Wong) that he found most endearing to use. 

'Honey' because it was just cheesy enough to sound romantic to strangers but secretly annoy my mother.

But never 'Li'. 

I wanted to cry because it was just so confusing. My dad seemed to be waiting for my mother's approval but she remained silent, draping her protection upon me. 

This must have been enough for dad as he stopped looking at my mom and began to shift his focus on me. 

"Kati, I know this is strange. I don't know where to start. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your father." I had to cry out of frustration. I wanted the explanation to be a dream now so that I could wake up, not have to make sense of the events and shake it off. 

"Dad, what are you talking about?"

"My name is James. I'm not your dad, I'm your uncle. I'm your father's twin." Reality seemed to be molding some logic into the situation now but I still didn't like what I was feeling, nor was I use to it. He continued, "We've met once. Your brother must've been about two or three, and you were just a baby. It's so nice to see you all grown up."

"That's enough, just get out of here."

"I've changed Li!"

"Get out of our house!"

"I want to know my niece and nephew. It's all I have left of my brother. Please." 

My father's favorite book in the Bible was the book of James. When I asked why, the explanation was because  the author of that book, James, is the actual brother of Jesus, the spawn of Mary and Joseph. He would say, "More than any other author of the Bible, James knew Jesus best". This man says he is not my father but rather, the man who knew him best. Yet, why don't I know him at all and why is my mother forcing him to leave before I even get the chance to? 

"Mom. What is going on?" The tears keep streaming because I can't just let him leave. I can't just be told to forget this happened, because I won't be able to. I'll always wonder and she'll never tell me, not if he leaves. I turn back to my uncle. "Why is she's telling you to leave?" 

"Because I..."

"NO!," my mother cuts him off. 

"Mom stop it! What the heck is happening?!"

"Kati I wasn't a good man. Your parents were right to keep me from being in your life."

Mom leaps uncharacteristically across the table at James and slaps him hard. He seems to be electrified into a standing position, slightly pushing dad's chair away. Mom stands back as well, with a burning anger I can't really say I've ever seen in her, or anyone else for that matter, before. She is staring him down but he seems determined to speak, knowing full well she won't allow him to. I can't think of anything to do but watch. Once again, I'm frozen. 

"I'll leave Li." My mother seems to drop her guard slightly. She blinks to the ground and back up at Uncle James. Her fierce look returns as the nickname of 'Rambo' finally makes sense to me. 

He backs away and turns to the front door. After a deep exhale, he begins to walk the ten paces it takes and reaches for the door. With his hand on the knob, he turns his head back towards us. 

"No one even told me he died, you know?" At this point, I'm not sure if my mom is really listening or planning to grab the umbrella from the holder nearby and chase him down the street before he continues, "My own brother gone and I didn't know it. They say twins are supposed to feel it but I didn't know he was gone until last week. I didn't even know what state you guys moved to or which city to find you in. I never looked, you know?" He looks away now, but I gaze harder at the stranger who looks like the person I loved most in the whole wide world. 

"I don't blame you and Mike for kicking me out of your lives. I was a miserable, sick drunk and I was in that room with Kati--she was just a baby--but I don't deny it; I was trying to hurt her bad. I was...I would have if you didn't barge in. I'm not the same. I don't expect you to believe me but I wanted you to know that I still loved him all these years. I've loved all of you. I've missed him. He was my best friend." 

Uncle James had kept talking and my mom, for some reason, wasn't stopping him. Maybe it was because she had been waiting to hear these words or maybe it was because he was so close to leaving that she didn't want to jinx it by yelling again. Uncle James took another deep breath and upon exhaling, finished his one-sided conversation.

 "Say hi to Tony...or don't. I won't  bother you again. I'm sorry. And remember I love you all. I love you." 

It was so nice hearing those three words from what sounded like my dad's voice. I wish I could have recorded it. I wanted to run after this man. This person who, like me, felt dad was their best friend. This person who could say things my dad use to say to me in the same voice he would say it with. This person who I can't label as anything more than a stranger. This person who said he was trying to hurt me as a baby. In what way? Why? 

So many questions in need of so many answers. So much love and friendship lost. This stranger and I, as dad would say, seemed to be on the exact same page; the problem was, we were in different books. 

Instinctively, I knew I was never meant to read my uncle's story and further, that my father would want me to listen to my mother. 

I think about that day every now and then. I can hear the "I love you" as clear as if it were being said two feet away. I pretend it was a dream and that it's my dad 

saying it. I think the reality is that it was my dad saying it. He came to say how much he misses his best friend and how much he loves me. I miss him too. 

My first kiss was to a boy who pointed out my flaws about 10x more than he ever complimented my strengths. I look back now and cannot remember why I liked him, but I do remember how I moved on from him. It was because of the one who  I cannot let go of (almost a decade later). I know he hates to see me cry but I hate to see him walk away. Since I met him, I have not been able to date anyone else. He is my best friend. He is the one I pray with. He is the one I laugh with. He is both my shame and my pride. He is the reason I have the confidence to walk around knowing I am a desired creature but, he is also the reason I cannot stand to look at my reflection most days. 

Three summers ago, we were laying on my twin size mattress, staring at the ceiling as he held me. The act of holding turned into kissing, kissing turned into touching and touching turned into letting go of innocence. I thought about this moment for quite some time and from the moment I met him, noone else could play the role of my counterpart in those lustful thoughts. Still, I wanted to wait. We didn't. The hundred of times since then, we've closed the distance between "We shouldn't do this" and "Just one more time," it's been difficult to feel like I can be restored. That is after all what the faith teaches us.  Looking back now, knowing just last night we were staring at the ceiling and he was holding me again, I wish that someone could go back in time to convince me that no mater how good it feels, there is nothing like knowing you waited. Being on this side of the fish tank feels like I don't belong in the atmosphere of carelessness. Oh, how wonderful the feeling must be to swim in a pool of no regret. 

The truth is, I don't regret the sex. I regret that it reminds me of why I went to foster care and what my father went through to get me back home. They say that I had bruises in an area that no three year old girl should and being that this was a time of "Guilty until proven innocent" for immigrants, no one believed my father was the latter. After a full year of fighting and contesting the charges, my father listened to the lawyers and social workers who finally convinced him that saying he was "guilty" and seeking help was the only way the Foster Care system and Family Court judges would even consider giving him back his beautiful little girl.

 He spent seven years with predators and child molesters, listening and lying about unspeakable habits because this is what the officials believe "restores innoncence". It worked. Apparently, if a father rapes his daughter, years of counseling is supposed to make their home "safe" again. In truth,  he never touched me and no one believed that the bruises came from playing "horsey" with my cousins. Thankfully, I remembered and so, when I was old enough to comprehend what my father endured just so he didn't have to only see me once a week under supervised visits,  I could not understand why a man would do that. Could someone love me so much that he'd destroy part of his soul just for the hope, not even the garauntee, to be the one who wakes me up each morning? Eventually, he was able to do just that. I never bothered with my alarm clock because joyfully, dad was there, breakfast ready and car warmed up for my ride to school. Now that he has passed away, I can't help but wish I could restore his innocence. 

Last night's hug was wonderful and I feel as if I love this man--the only man my father has ever approved of--but sometimes I wish I could hug my father. Hug him before the world ever labeled him. Hug him inspite of the label. He was innocent. I remained innocent because he loved me. Now, I only want the type of love that a good man can offer. I realize now that the question I need to ask is not, "Will he still love me tomorrow?" The question is, "Does he want to be the one to wake me up every morning?" If not, I know it is worth waiting until I know the answer is yes. For when the answer is "Yes," I know that he will be the last person I kiss.

Many experts say that we've all got this extra chromosome

carrying genetic information inside of us. 

It doesn't come from our mom.

It doesn't come from our father. 

They call it the "God Chromosome". 

Many people say there is no God. 

I think its pretty funny that He put evidence of His existence in our very beings.

This tangible part of us that we just need to keep pulling. 

A threadlike structure that, when finally unraveled, helps us realize that we are not just made in His image; we are genetically tied to this omnipotent being. 

Many think that they are somehow enlightened because they refuse to pull the thread.

They ignore everything telling them to believe. 

Even the very substance flowing through their hearts.  

They'll claim that they feel complete relying on their own strength.

On their own wit. 

On their own. 

Many years ago, I'd make the same claims.

I'd feel alone in a crowded place. 

I'd laugh to mask my tear-stained reality. 

Today, I cry from the joy and peace of knowing (undoubtedly) that I belong. 

Many believe that they're proving their superiority by doubting. 

When I compare His evidence to theirs, I realize one truth:

Their thread is broken and will never be

complete.  

Dear Diary,

This is going to sound strange, but I'm glad this happened. I don't have to lie to some case planner about doing well in school anymore. And, for the first time in a long time, I'm worried about other people. They're panicking, thinking that television has provided  some great insight about how working together to defeat the Zombies is the answer... but they've never had to fight. I've been fighting all my life: The bullies. The lies. For food. Attention. Respect. It's not about working together; its about accepting that, other than Jesus, you're all on your own. 

I would've told you not to pick up this book, but you've already done it. What I'll advise now is that you don't continue reading. Don't. This story isn't going to inspire you or help you put life into perspective. This is going to be one of those stories you wish you could forget. So, before you have that regret, just put this down. Okay...well don't say I didn't warn you. 

When dad died, everyone expected my brother to step up. Instead, he packed his bags and left. Mom lost her job. We had to move. These chaotic experiences suck, but they are the only moments where true character is revealed. Fear being synonymous with chaos is a choice. Choose wisely.