trusted. And so even though I was found—later that night after Amah, Baba, Uncle, and the others shouted for me along the waterway—I never believed my family found the same girl.
And then, over the years, I forgot the rest of what happened that day: the pitiful story the Moon Lady sang, the pavilion boat, the bird with the ring on its neck, the tiny flowers blooming on my sleeve, the burning of the Five Evils.
But now that I am old, moving every year closer to the end of my life, I also feel closer to the beginning. And I remember everything that happened that day because it has happened many times in my life. The same innocence, trust, and restlessness, the wonder, fear, and loneliness. How I lost myself.
I remember all these things. And tonight, on the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, I also remember what I asked the Moon Lady so long ago. I wished to be found.
The Twenty-Six Malignant Gates
"Do not ride your bicycle around the corner," the mother had told the daughter when she was seven.
"Why not!" protested the girl.
"Because then I cannot see you and you will fall down and cry and I will not hear you."
"How do you know I'll fall?" whined the girl.
"It is in a book, The Twenty-Six Malignant Gates, all the bad things that can happen to you outside the protection of this house."
"I don't believe you. Let me see the book."
"It is written in Chinese. You cannot understand it. That is why you must listen to me."
